From Thanksgiving Onward
by Enochian Whisperer
Summary: It's been sixth months since the Fall. Team Free Will is still holed up in the bunker. Kevin has been pulled out of isolation, Castiel is human, and Sam is hosting an angel in his body. The four boys have been adjusting to their new, more stationary lives, and it's had its ups and downs. But as the holiday season draws nearer, their ties become strained.
1. Chapter 1

Sam glanced at the calendar that was hanging on the wall. It was about time they got a wall calendar, he thought. Red x's told him that today was the 28th of November. It was Thanksgiving. Sam didn't need a calendar to tell him that though. The Chinese take-outs that littered the center table in the bunker did all of the informing for him. Sam had gone the extra mile to liven up the pot and brought back pie, chips and he cut up raw vegetables (mostly for himself). It was ironic that they were celebrating Thanksgiving and yet no one had bothered to pray. Nobody protested abstaining from it though. God was in some faraway place as far as they were concerned. He wasn't listening. What would be the point?

It was Thanksgiving. Another lousy Halloween had come and gone with the expected surfacing of supernatural disturbances that it rang in. Halloween (and October in general) was seasonal for supernatural killings; it provided camouflage for the enemy. The Winchesters, by design, hated the pagan holiday. Castiel was still a hunter-in-training, but his aim had gotten a lot better over a matter of several months. He still preferred close combat though, but only because he still forgot at times that he wasn't "immortal". Kevin had been shown the ropes as well. However, Castiel had Kevin at a disadvantage; he had already seen the brutality of war. He had already been hardwired to be insensitive to what would traumatize most humans. It wasn't to say that human terror was lost on him though. He had a number of scares himself. But Castiel was far more able-bodied than Kevin Tran. By default, he was created to be a warrior. He had not lost that element of his being even after the Fall.

Dean was sitting next to Castiel, and Castiel was sitting next to Kevin. Kevin was sitting at the end of the long table, and Sam was sitting next to Kevin, across from Castiel. Everyone ate in silence. There was nothing to be said. It was just another day in the bunker, but Team Free Will decided to take the day off in lieu of the holiday. It kind of bothered Sam. He was itching to get his hands on the next case and get back on the job. It felt strange to be kicking back. Dean certainly wasn't complaining though. The break was his idea. Castiel wasn't objecting either. Or Kevin. Sam was drumming his fingers on his thigh under the table. Finally he decided that he was done eating and pushed himself up from the table. All eyes were on him, but Sam simply cleared his plate away. Kevin glanced to Dean, a mouthful of lo mein noodles hanging from his lips.

Still nothing was said. Castiel picked his way through his plate. He didn't like the bean shoots in his fried rice. Dean had to keep from scolding Castiel. The guy was still an extremely picky eater, even months after adjusting to the fact that eating was a prerequisite to staying alive and breathing. He could be such a child sometimes, but Dean refrained from commenting. Instead he wondered about Kevin. The kid was obviously Asian, but he wondered nonetheless. He would have asked sooner, but knowing wasn't ever important. And it wasn't worth rustling the kid's jimmies by prying. He guessed Korean.

There was some cause for alarm when Sam climbed the slope of stairs and left the bunker. But Sam only wanted to get some fresh air. Being holed up underground for so long was enough to drive anyone crazy. He stepped out to the gravel road a few feet in front of him, and peered around the tree line that hugged the road, sloping with the road as it curved out of sight. It was late afternoon. A lazy fall day. Sam saw the sun through the trees, and then he looked out to the expanse of river beyond the road. He looked back to see the steel bridge that towered over to the east. The old brick building at the top of the rocky incline where the bunker was nestled looked as decrepit as ever. Sam wished that they hadn't returned to the bunker so soon. Sure, the bunker was well-furnished, but again, being holed up for so long was indicative of cabin fever.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, and he jumped.

"Are you alright?"

"–Hey, Cas," Sam sighed, relaxing, even though his friend's touch was slightly unnerving still. "I just needed some fresh air." Castiel, not for the first time, was able to empathize.

"... I understand the feeling."

Sam looked at Castiel for a long moment. Another spike of irony pricked Sam and it saddened him. He never thought he would actually miss Castiel's ignorance. Never in a million years.

—

Dean cleared his plate and left Kevin to take care of himself. He washed his dishes and began putting leftovers away in the refrigerator. He glanced to the bunker door once or twice. Cas must've decided to keep Sam company outside. He bit back a yawn and looked at the clock. It was only four, but he felt like packing it up early and hitting the sack. Considering how screwed up their sleep schedules were, it wasn't a sin to sleep in on occasion, whether it meant sleeping into the night or into the morning. He scratched lazily at his stomach, and looked around the room. The bunker was stocked beyond stocked with books, and even though Dean wasn't much of a leisurely reader, he could have chewed off at least half of the books available to him, if they all weren't boring records of information. He'd leave it to Sam to be the bookworm; he'd scrape the summary from his brother later.

Dean saw that Kevin was already hogging the flat screen. It was at least a month and a half before Dean had finally caved and bought a TV, and got cable. Sam was a bit leery about letting the cable man into the bunker. Dean was hesitant himself, but it was irrefutable fact that if they didn't modernize the bunker at least a little bit, all remaining sanity would fly the coop. They managed to comfort their worries though: he was just a cable man.

Kevin was watching a Game of Thrones rerun. Dean could only imagine how well Kevin would get along with Charlie Bradbury... but there and again, Charlie was a different level of fantasy enthusiast. She LARPed, for Pete's sake. Charlie outclassed Kevin on that premise alone.

"Hey."

Kevin looked away from the TV screen.

"What?"

"Mess," Dean pointed to the table that still wasn't fully cleared away.

"I'll get it," Kevin waved him off with an eyeroll. Dean's eyes narrowed a bit, but he said nothing and headed down the three stairs that led to the library. From there he headed to the corridor where the bedrooms were stacked.

Sometimes Dean felt like he was a surrogate parent to Kevin. How old was the kid? Nineteen? Dean didn't know Kevin's birthday either. It just wasn't something important to know. But he did feel partially responsible for Kevin's normal life being so suddenly derailed. The only thing that eased his "guilt" was the fact that Kevin was a predestined prophet. The angels had chosen him. Or God. Or Metatron, or whoever. Dean hadn't willfully plucked Kevin from his home. That didn't rest on Dean's shoulders. Still, he felt responsible for the kid sometimes. Not responsible enough to dote though. Hell, he and Sam had forced Kevin to ball up and translate the Demon Tablet locked inside Garth's "boat house", cut off completely from the outside world, living off of nothing but weak coffee, meager fridge scraps, and aspirin. Kevin hadn't been exactly under top-notch care then. But after Kevin experienced just what exactly Crowley was capable of, the Winchesters were bent on not neglecting Kevin so cruelly like that again.

Whatever happened to Garth anyway-

Dean racked his fingers through his short hair. No. Today was his day off, he wasn't going to get all worked up over freakin' _Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth_. He would turn up sooner or later. ...Even though it had been six months since they had last made contact. How did the name "Garth" survive in a family tree for four generations though? Dean could only imagine what the first three Garth Fitzgeralds were like.

Dean swept off his t-shirt and jeans. He worked his way into sweats and a turtleneck. Bathroom. He brushed his teeth and washed his face. He looked into the mirror, stared into it. The man that stared back posed a question, one that had crossed his mind countless times before. How would he be, if it wasn't for this?

Sometimes Dean thought this whole situation was incredible. Here he was, thirty-five years old, holed up underground in the library of a dead secret society, with his ex-demon blood junkie little brother, a high school dropout who was in advanced placement-turned-prophet of The Lord, and an ex-angel of The Lord-turned-human. It was crazy. But the even crazier thing to Dean was trying to imagine what his life would be like if he hadn't got sucked into all of this. Would he have a wife? Kids? Would he have gone to college and aspired to something great? Would he have settled for a humbling career as a mechanic? Would he have long-lasting friends to drinking with on weekends? Would his life have been cut short by any one of the creatures he now hunted? Would he be unafraid of the dark?

If there was anything that kept Dean Winchester awake at night, it was questions like these that plagued his mind.

—

Kevin was midway through his episode of Game of Thrones when Sam and Castiel came back into the bunker. He craned his neck to look up at them descending from the balcony. He remembered when Sam and Dean had first brought him to the bunker. It was both liberating and despairing. Liberating because finally after so long, Kevin didn't have to see the same rusty walls of Garth's ramshackle house boat. That house boat had been the "desert" so described by the angels, where he was to "learn the Word of God", but that boat quickly became a prison cell due to circumstance. Kevin remembered having gone mad in that place. He barely had any windows to see out of, and no matter where he looked, painful reminders stabbed him in the eyes. _This is your life now. You belong here. You were destined for something great and this is it._

The notes, translations and guesstimates of translations were pinned and taped in colors all around him.

If there was anything that Kevin Tran could discern then, it was this: being a prophet of The Lord was nothing comparatively close to being like the heroes in his videogames that were so idolized. Being Luke Skywalker _sucked_. It sucked more than _anything_. A lot of nights, Kevin would either cry himself to sleep or cry himself awake because there was no way he would be accepted into Princeton and become America's first Asian-American president. That dream was as shredded as Dean Winchester's innards had been when Lilith sicced her hellhound on him. It was done beyond repair.

Kevin was doing much better now though. He had long since come to terms with reality. Or he was at least finding reality more agreeable than before. Kevin still looked back sometimes and guffawed at the transition. When he looked at Sam and Dean, he didn't have to imagine the things that they had seen anymore. He only had to imagine how in God's name they managed to survive for this long. When he learned that Sam and Dean had been hunters since practical birth, it left Kevin impressed. He didn't know which was worse: having a normal life and having it torn away, or never knowing the blessings of a normal life at all.

"Hey Kev," Sam greeted. Castiel only nodded to the teenager. Sam saw the mess that Kevin had left on the table and he was automatically inclined to clean it. Whether Sam or Kevin cleaned it, it wouldn't make a difference; Dean wouldn't know.

"Hey," Kevin tossed back, before returning his attention to the TV. He turned up the volume when the racket that Sam was making in the kitchen began to grate on his nerves. He stared at the screen but he was finding it hard to pay attention. His vision was turning out of focus. Kevin blinked. He felt tired. Maybe he'd follow Dean's example and call it a night. Even though it was only–he looked at the clock–five-thirty. But he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to succumb to whatever nightmare was waiting to ensnare him in a comatose state. Would Crowley revisit him? How about his mom? Maybe Channing? Or whatever monster was hiding in the Mystery Box. Maybe he would get lucky tonight and actually get some restful sleep. He could only hope.

Kevin realized that Castiel was staring at him.

"...What?"

Castiel was hardly deterred by the bite in his tone. He didn't say anything. Instead, he just shuffled off to the kitchen. After watching him leave, Kevin huffed in vexation and turned back to the TV once again.

—

Castiel quietly padded into the kitchen, and watched Sam work from by the doorway. He wiggled his toes inside his socks. There was something about the human sense of touch that would always nag him. The sense of discomfort. Castiel understood the benefit of wearing socks, but his toes felt trapped. He couldn't settle his toes comfortably. The end seam that met at the toe tips dug under his big toenails. He shifted the seams to sit on top of the nail but it still didn't feel right because now the fabric was being stretched upward against his toes– socks would drive him crazy.

Castiel applied a method that Dean had taught him to use in times like this: think of something else. Anything else. He thought of the first time he tasted water, and the refreshment it brought him then was pleasant enough so that he forgot the unpleasantry of the sock seams. Sam noticed Castiel's presence because he had stopped working.

"You wanna pitch in?"

Sam may have sounded a little harsh, but the period of grace that Castiel had received from the Winchesters was by this time curbing. They could only remain so kind to their fallen friend. Castiel had begun to take their sympathy for granted in some respects. For the first few months, he moped around as if there was no reason to go on living. When he finally was found and brought to the bunker, the first thing that Castiel did was arrange everything. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had taken a strange grip on the angel. It had been as if Castiel was trying desperately to fix everything he had broken in a severely misplaced effort within their new home. All he wanted to do was set everything right, put the pieces back together in order. Castiel may have been powerless to fix Heaven, but he could at least redesign the bunker to his liking. Sam, Dean and Kevin learned not to give Castiel Skittles or M&M's, otherwise he would be sitting there all day, arranging them by color. But Castiel would always find a flaw in something, and impulsively make it his mission to straighten it out. It was a sad thing to watch. But the Winchesters helped him through that. He had been like an abandoned child, a baby in a trench coat. But the trench coat was long ago hung and it was time for little Castiel to grow up.

Castiel moved away from the door and nonverbally assented. He dried the dishes that were piling up in the rack. Sam wasted no time in resuming his work. The two men worked in silence. They spared each other furtive glances. Well, they were furtive mostly on Castiel's part. He felt like he should say something, but there was still nothing to say. So Castiel was left alone to his thoughts.

Castiel recalled target practice. Sam and Dean had taken him and Kevin out for their first target practice. The boys tried to teach Castiel and Kevin, just like how their dad and Bobby once taught them. Neither Castiel nor Kevin were inherently successful. But he recalled something Dean had said to him that day.

_"You gotta get your head out of the clouds, Cas! You can't hit the target just by __willing__ the bullet to punch the bullseye via the Grace of God. You're not an angel anymore, Cas! You're human! You need to concentrate and aim!"_

As Castiel sank into this memory, he became detached from the task at hand.

"CAS!"

Castiel blinked away his shock. He was bleeding. The knife he had been wiping slipped through the dish towel. The white fabric quickly blotted dark red. Sam was scrambling for his dad's army medical kit, while applying another towel and pressure to Castiel's left hand.

—

"Damn it, Cas!" Sam grunted as he hauled the angel back out to the center table. Kevin looked up from his seat in alarm. And Sam got to work stitching up Castiel's hand, Dean came bolting into the room.

"What happened?!" he demanded. Sam paused to look at his older brother.

"Castiel cut his hand open."

"How the hell did he manage that?!"

"I wasn't paying attention," Castiel answered roughly, ruefully. Sam returned to suturing the split flesh, and Castiel wasn't worried about Dean's disappointment anymore. The pain in his hand was so intense that he moaned and rocked forward, nearly jerking his hand away from the younger Winchester.

"Damn it, Cas!" Sam repeated angrily, "Hold still!"

"It hurts!"

"I know it does!" Sam wrestled to keep the angel still, "But I can't help you if you don't bite through it- Dean! Kevin! Grab a hold of Cas, will you?!"

Dean and Kevin were on Castiel in an instant. It wasn't easy, but Sam managed to finish up the job amidst Castiel's relentless cries and howling. Sam wasn't the only one who considered knocking him out for the operation. The guy had no resolve when it came to injuries. He was as sensitive as a newborn. Though, to be fair, a cut requiring stitches wasn't exactly an every-day boo-boo.

When it was all said and done, Castiel was a collapsed mess of panting, gasping, and sweating in his chair. He'd turned awfully white too. Dean had left Kevin and Sam to hold Castiel for a minute during the ordeal. The older Winchester returned with a bottle of liquor and tried sobering up his friend a little with the strong and foul taste. Castiel fought the liquor too. Kevin was spent too. He wasn't as strong as Dean or Sam, but he was done. He retired to his room when he Sam had snipped the thread. Sam could have sworn that a dark cloud looming over Kevin's head trailed behind him as he left. Kevin was pissed.

Dean was walking off taking an angel's elbow to the groin. Sam leaned over and patted Castiel's shoulder soothingly. He chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Your first patch-up job. Welcome to the club."

That only earned him a scowl that -had Castiel been of angel status still- would have spelled certain death on the spot. Sam's smile dissolved.

"...Right," he grimaced. He saw how Castiel hovered protectively over his stitched hand. He looked exactly like a wounded animal that was cornered and terrified. Dean came hobbling back to them. He smacked a hand onto the back of Castiel's chair, glaring at his brother.

"Next time I say we knock out the tantrum-throwing angel," he sucked in a breath and wheezed, "_we knock out the tantrum-throwing angel_."

"Not even gonna argue," Sam agreed, throwing up his hands defensively. Dean hobbled off again. Castiel continued to nurse his hand. But then Sam saw that he was trying to pluck the sutures.

"_No!_" Sam sprang up and grabbed his wrist. The angel retaliated again, but he threw himself back so violently that he knocked over his own chair. Sam's fist collided with Castiel's face and it was lights out. Dean hadn't even made it halfway across the room to help his brother before it was said and done. Sam realized that he had balled up the angel's shirt in one hand to yank him in for the swing. Sam was breathing raggedly, but looking up to see the astonishment on Dean's face winded him more than anything.

—

_"Dude, go easy on Cas, okay? He's one of the good guys."_

_"Dude, if anybody else -I mean __anybody__- pulled that same crap, I'd stab them in their neck on principle. Why should I give him a free pass?"_

_"...Because it's Cas."_

Dean blinked. He shouldn't have been as dumbfounded as he was, but he was. Sam just full-on swayzed Cas without hesitating. His line of sight flickered between the unconscious man on the floor, and the man kneeling over him. He shifted on his feet and swallowed.

"Well... guess that's settled then."

Dean and Sam carried Cas to his bedroom, which was God-righteously clean. There wasn't a fleck of dust to be inhaled. Dean then watched Sam wrap up Cas's hand so that he wouldn't be tempted to pick at his stitches. But who was to say that Cas wouldn't be tempted to tear off the bandage to pick at his stitches anyway? Dean didn't really feel that bad for him. He had been asking for a sucker-punch by throwing a fit. But aside from frustrated shoves, nobody had ever gotten physical with Cas before. Dean was surprised that Sam was the first person to cross that line. It warranted concern from the older brother, but it was laid to rest when he finally decided to leave the room for some shut-eye of his own.

Sam decided that he would oversee Cas for tonight -oh the irony of the angel being watched over by a human. Dean trusted him that he would be able to handle the angel no matter what shape he woke up in. Dean shook his head. Cas wasn't going to be Sleeping Beauty when he woke up. It was an unusual thing to see, an angel like Cas being stirred to anger. Not just bitchface-level aggression, but complete rupturing. Dean had only witnessed Castiel rupture three times: once in an alley, when he was ready to give himself up to Michael, tonight, and sometime in between the first two events. Dean sank onto his bed and burrowed himself into the blankets. It wasn't the norm for him to lie on his back, but where his mind was drifting, he couldn't turn himself away.


	2. Chapter 2

Kevin heard the scuffle outside in the main corridor. Castiel was pitching another fit. Whatever. He wouldn't be bothered this time. That guy had some serious issues. Kevin lay on his stomach, flipping through an old issue of _Gamer Central_. His headphones were on, and he was ready to block out the rest of the forsaken world. Classical music was always the way to go for Kevin Tran, especially pieces that utilized the cello. Kevin missed his cello. He faceplanted the mattress, and tossed the magazine away. Then he picked up his head and rubbed his eyes. Well, the only good thing that ever came out of his academic career being totally screwed was that he could indulge in the pleasures of being a teen more frequently. His face scrunched in disgust. No, not _those_ kinds of pleasures. But surprising as it may be, Kevin Tran was _not_ a virgin. Not with Channing, no. It happened before Channing. It was something that Kevin had regretted for the longest time, because if he was going to aim for presidential candidacy, the tabloids would be relentless to dig up his past. They always were, trying to find faults in every single candidate. He knew that routine.

But now he didn't regret it. In fact, now the only thing he regretted was toiling away in high school like a preppie, working his ass off for a dream that would be slaughtered the minute he was struck by proverbial lightning. If Kevin had known that it would all be for naught, he probably would have gotten out of the house a lot more. Kevin was staring at the ceiling now. He lifted his headphones. It was quiet out there. Even though he was curious, Kevin didn't get out of bed. He didn't want to change his clothes either. His forehead creased as he considered it, but screw it; he kicked off his shoes and dove under his blankets. No one was gonna sue him for not wearing night clothes.

Aside from having to get up for the bathroom once, Kevin slept soundly. He woke up feeling more refreshed than he had in a while, even though he had a bizarre dream about a pie eating contest between him and Dean (Dean won). The only downer was that he had woken up at— six-thirty. Way too early. Kevin poked his head out of his chamber. Everyone else still seemed to be asleep. He figured he might as well watch some more TV while he could. He would have gone exploring the bunker, but he had already seen it all. Every last room, even the torture room. A cynical smile quirked up briefly. He remembered when Dean first brought him to Rufus's cabin. He thought that the cabin basement was a sex torture dungeon.

"Is this a sex torture dungeon? It looks like a sex torture dungeon."

A faint laugh puffed from him. He had been so naive back then. Of course it wasn't a sex torture dungeon, but he was a scared Junior at the time. He had run away from his home in Neighbor, Michigan–in his mother's car–in pursuit of an object one state south that he had never seen before in his life. Completely on impulse. He was delirious. At the time Kevin thought he was having seizures. And then he went and got caught by Sam and some demon girl named Meg after stealing the mystery item from them; the Leviathan Tablet. People always tended to assume worst-cast scenario in situations like that. Kevin Tran was no exception. Still, his own assumption was ridiculous enough to bring a light blush to his face. That scene led to less pleasant recollections, and Kevin moved quickly away from his room, leaving those thoughts at the door.

He remembered how Sam and Dean had abandoned him for almost a whole year after the final showdown at Sucro Corp. Dick Roman. What a dick. Well, once he understood that Dean (and Castiel) had been dragged to freaking_ Purgatory_, he was able to forgive Dean a little more readily. But prior to, he had no idea what happened. It was only seconds after Dick's demise that Crowley had appeared and kidnapped him. What an even bigger dick. Sam was an exception. Kevin had a harder time forgiving Sam. Sam didn't have any excuses, none that were valid to him.

Kevin slapped himself. Damn it, he had told himself not to get caught up in the past. That was all behind them now. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He was in he darkness of the library now. It was very dimly light by the under-lighting of a few wall sconces. He shuffled to the main corridor, only to be startled out of his skin.

—

Waking up to an awful sting in his left hand wasn't pleasant. Castiel didn't find the hand-wrapping to be pleasant either. In the darkness of the room, he shrugged the fabric from his palm to examine the stitches. A hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed him. The angel flinched, but when he realized that it was only Sam, he relaxed.

"_Don't_," Sam warned.

"I wasn't going to," Castiel told him, letting his eyes wander away, "I just wanted to see them."

Sam was hesitant, before leaning back in his chair.

"You look tired," Castiel said, even though he could barely make out Sam's figure in the dark. "You should sleep."

"_Nah, I'm alright_."

Castiel was silent, sitting up in bed as he tenderly poked at Sam's handiwork. He winced, withdrawing. He was wide awake now. Sam yawned.

"Sam."

"_Yeah?_"

"Get some rest. I'm done resting for tonight."

Sam was a little surprised at the assertiveness in Castiel's gravelly voice, but he hesitantly nodded, got up, and left. He could feel Sam's eyes on him as he exited the room. Castiel looked at his hands. One of the hardest things for Castiel to overcome about humanity was the need to sleep. At first Castiel wasn't able to sleep until exhaustion got a hold of him. He would stay awake for days straight until collapsing. And then he would sleep for the following days on end. It went on like this for weeks. This cycle was far from healthy (not to mention inconvenient for the Winchesters and Kevin), but Castiel did not know how to sleep properly. He had always been a creature naturally driven on an everlasting battery. The third strike was the last one: the Winchesters had to help Castiel lull into a normal sleep cycle. It wasn't easy. Castiel was restless when he had his energy about him.

_"Just relax. Don't think about anything. Close your eyes, breathe and let it happen."_

_"How? I don't understand."_

_"...I'm not sure how. It isn't something you really force yourself to do."_

_"Then why am I forcing myself?"_

Castiel swung his legs over the side of his bed. He immediately shed his socks. The stone floor was ice cold beneath his feet, but the chill that raced up his legs and back provided a little bit of relief from the tearing burn in his palm. He padded out to the library. He stopped and surveyed the room, eyes landing on the fireplace. And to think that there was a time in his epic of a life where Castiel could have lit a fire from across the room with a single thought. He felt so handicapped. That was the ugliness of human limitation.

Castiel found himself sitting in the main corridor, in the same seat that Kevin had been sitting in the day before. He stared at the black rectangular eye on the wall. He had no desire to watch television. Minutes later, a sharp gasp had him turning his head to the library.

"_Oh-!_ -_God-_"

It was Kevin Tran. The boy's chest expanded and compacted, trying to shake off the stab of adrenaline. Even as a human Castiel still had the element of surprise.

"Why are you awake?" Castiel asked. Kevin's eyes locked with his.

"Why are _you_ awake?"

"... Touche."

Kevin's expression became quizzical. Was this guy serious?

"It's _touché._"

Castiel was still learning human slang.

Kevin entered the "living room" (which was by no means walled in) and sank into the neighboring seat across from Castiel. It was a little cool in the room, and Kevin thought about starting up the fireplace, but he chose against it in the end. He didn't like it when Castiel watched him do things.

"... So what happened?" Kevin asked, staring straight out. It didn't take a lot for Castiel to put two and two together.

"I cut myself," he looked down to his hand again, gently tracing Sam's stitches with his calloused thumb.

"Smooth. ...Why'd you do it?"

Castiel stared sidelong at Kevin.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself, if that's what you're asking."

Kevin's eyes met his. They shared a long, soul-searching moment then, like the ones that Castiel used to frequent with Dean. Kevin sighed.

"I wouldn't blame you if it was. I get it."

They were quiet again. Despite all of the time that they had spent around each other, they still had barely just perforated each others boundaries. They had learned to work together, naturally, but they still hardly knew each other. Castiel didn't know that Kevin was a cellist, that he loved playing _Skyrim_, and that he had once planned to be the leader of the soil they were standing on. Kevin didn't know that Castiel had been alive to see the Great Flood, wrought the Ten Plagues upon the Egyptians, and that he was the reason that Dean had a burn scar on his left shoulder. Though they both had their own stories (one grotesquely longer than the other) there remained the fact that there was so much that wasn't ever important to know


	3. Chapter 3

Sam yawned and rubbed at his eyes, but didn't bother to climb under the covers when he got to his bed. He didn't want to get too comfortable and wind up sleeping in. However, he was out like a light in a matter of minutes. He had a dream of his own. Sam was reliving his most intimate experience with Ruby. For a demon, Ruby sure knew how to deliver. But then the dream took a more unpleasant turn. Suddenly he was seeing Ruby leering at him, spitting up all of his mistakes in his face, and bragging about how his stupidity would be the reason that Lucifer rose. The only redeeming part of this dream was that Sam got the satisfaction of seeing her die in his arms, after thrusting her own knife into her chest cavity. But the victory was taken away too, because Ruby laughed bitterly as she choked up blood. The light died in her eyes, which were as black as her own corrupted soul.

Sam awoke to the smell of breakfast. He sat up and cracked his neck. His hand rubbed over his stubbled chin. He was due for a shave pretty soon. His hair was also getting a bit too long for his liking. He should've gone into town for a trimming yesterday, he realized that now. But oh well. He'd live.

The monstrously tall Winchester emerged from his cave, hulking like a bear on twos. Sam yawned thickly again, and ambled out to the library. He followed his nose to the main corridor. To his disappointment, he didn't see any food here, or being prepared in the kitchen.

"Mornin', Sunshine," his big brother quipped.

"I gather I missed breakfast," Sam said.

"No," Dean swayed to straighten up from where he was leaning over the table. "You missed a_ fantastic_ breakfast," he corrected. Kevin, who was seated beneath Dean, shifted.

"It wasn't anything special," he told both brothers, mostly Dean, "... I took a food science class in high school to boost my transcript."

"Ah," Dean rubbed Kevin's dark hair down, "Now he's being modest."

"It's the truth," Kevin murmured.

"I helped as well," Castiel offered.

"–What do we got?" Sam continued, leaving the angel's contribution unacknowledged.

"Well we got a few possible cases racked up this time," Dean began, teetering his way around to the other side of the table, where Castiel was sitting, "Wainesville, Missouri. Three men collapsed outside of a hospital. They were pronounced dead on site. No visible signs of foul play, nothing showed up in the autopsies either. ... And three days later, they're all up and walking again. But one is blind, one is deaf, and one is now mute."

Sam blinked.

"Sounds fun."

"Uhhhh, Lake Placid, New York," Dean read from a sheet, "Reports suggest animal attacks, but the vics were completely shredded apart. Like something wanted to make jerky out of their meats. That is wendigo territory, but the killing method isn't exactly up to par. You up for a camping trip in the Adirondacks?"

"What else you got?"

"-Well aren't you a ray of sunshine this morning?" Dean bit lightly. Sam scoffed.

"I only got two hours of sleep, Dean."

The older brother continued scouring their findings.

"Willard, Missouri. Twelve young children were reported missing, but then they all turned up with their eyes burned out of their skulls."

"... That sound like angel activity to you?" Sam looked at his brother intently.

Dean looked down at the sheet again. "...Yeah."

"We probably shouldn't touch that one with a ten foot pole. Could be a trap."

All eyes landed on Castiel. Naturally. Sam saw that Dean looked troubled.

"... We can't do anything for those kids," he told him.

"Yeah. I know."

Dean tossed the sheet on the table and sighed.

"Angels are off-limits," he reiterated. Sam honestly would have hunted down the son of a bitch that victimized those innocent children, but they couldn't take that risk and get drawn out into the open. The angels wanted them just as much as they wanted Castiel. They were the next best thing. The boys ultimately settled for Dean's first suggested case. It was the closest one to "home".

Sam and Dean went out together on this one. They kept Kevin and Castiel on lock down. They were not allowed to leave the bunker for any reason while the brothers were gone. There weren't any complaints. It was standard protocol. Kevin would manage his usual post as the phone operator and informant. Dean told Castiel to watch and learn from Kevin, and to practice in the target room. Those were his only jobs. They said their goodbyes and Sam shut the reinforced bunker door behind them. Kevin locked it fast from inside. The boys threw their bags into the Impala's trunk and climbed into the car. Another day, another dollar. That would have been an appropriate expression if they were getting paid to do the job.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean relished in the sound that his Baby made when she puttered to life at the turn of the ignition. A lot of times, not always, he loved driving long distances. He loved the freedom of being able to choose his next destination. Normal people were stuck in ruts, day in and day out, following the same dull routine. Not him. Things were never boring in the life of a hunter. There was always work to be done, and there was a ton of variety in prey. Being picky was optional and also a great example of freedom. Well, actually the only boring things about the life were the research, and the waiting.

The first twenty minutes of the drive were silent. Normally Sam's ears would have started bleeding from listening to his brother singing along to the same five damn cassette tracks 24/7, but today was a rare occasion. Sam spared a few cursory glances at Dean, not all of which went unnoticed.

"What?" Dean finally asked when he got fed up with it. Sam made a face.

"What-what?"

"Don't start that," the older brother warned, "What's with the pretty-girl shy glances?"

Dean certainly hadn't lost a touch of his snark. It made Sam chuckle briefly, before his smile dropped.

"Nothing."

"Yeah, I'll believe that the day pigs fly."

Sam glanced at Dean.

"Swine flu."

Dean took his eyes off the road to lock with Sam's. He drew his eyes back.

"..._Damn_."

Sam laughed. That reaction was priceless.

"Shut up," Dean freed a hand from the steering wheel to shove his little brother. That only egged Sam on. "Why were you looking at me like a freakin' high school crush?"

"Dude, really? I'm freaking _you_ out?"

"Yeah, really," Dean shot back, "It's creepy, Sam. ...Wouldn't be the first time you freaked me out, either. You're giving me the heebie-jeebies here, so what's up?"

"Nothing, Dean, seriously."

"Sam." Dean's tone meant business, so Sam sighed and gave up.

"It's just... You and Cas."

"What-?" Dean glanced to the passenger seat, "What about me and Cas?"

"I dunno, you guys just don't really seem to get along as well as you used to."

Dean groaned, "If this turns into some soap opera drama, Sam, I swear to God, I'm pulling this car over, kicking your ass out, and I'm gonna wrap up this job myself. You can _walk_ back to the bunker."

The look Sam gave his brother was incredulous.

"Alright, sheesh."

To punctuate the termination of the topic, Dean turned on the radio, and sang to Blue Oyster Cult, jumping in mid-chorus. Sam exhaled and decided to sift through the file that Dean and Kevin had compiled.

And that was the end of that.

—

Kevin was reclining on his chair in the "living room" again. Sam and Dean had only just left about a half-hour ago. He wasn't expecting that they would be needing him just yet. But he kept the shoe box of cell phones and his laptop nearby just in case. Castiel was still sitting at the center table. He was looking across the room at the dashboards of dials and lights and switches that served no purpose that he could discern. Kevin was bored again, and he rocked himself forward, to stand up from the chair.

"C'mon," he beckoned to the angel, "Time for target practice," he decided. Castiel stood up and followed Kevin without a word. He didn't like having Castiel walking behind him. The teen just couldn't shake off the weird vibes that he was getting from the older man. Maybe he was getting these vibes because of the whole "prophet" thing. Or it could have been the fact that Castiel was simply a functioning human at best, ignorance clinging to him like a drape. Not being past acquaintanceship could have also been playing a key part. Kevin lead Castiel to the doorway under the stairs that led to the bunker's entrance. They made for the armory first. The bunker could pride itself in possessing a vast collection of weaponry, from swords to the more modern guns that Sam and Dean had added to its collection. They weren't going to touch the ancient stuff today (even though Kevin had the pleasure of brandishing a wicked crossbow shortly after the angels fell and the bunker kicked into emergency lock down). Kevin picked up his favorite gun, a Colt (not _the _Colt, this one was a much newer model). He checked it over, snapped open the chamber to make sure it was empty, and snapped it back shut. It wasn't top-top priority that Kevin learn how to handle a weapon, but the kid needed to learn self-defense just in case. Castiel was the primary concern here. Castiel found swabs of cotton and stuff them into his ears. Guns were loud when they were shot, and his ears were still on the sensitive side. Kevin watched Castiel stuff his ears, and fought an eyeroll. He picked up his weapon of choice, a Smith & Wesson, 9mm with a solid rubber grip. The angel particularly liked this one because Dean insisted that he learn with it (he didn't exactly trust Castiel not to drop the gun by accident, so a gun that had a grip with traction was better for playing it on the safer side).

The two of them found boxes of proper ammunition and headed out to the target range room. The old silhouette targets had long been replaced by a variety of new ones. Some of them were now sacks stuffed with sand that hung from the ceiling. Others were rotating metal disks. Some columns were plastered with paper targets. Kevin steps up to a column where sand bags targets swayed. Even though those targets were a nuisance to clean up, he got the most satisfaction from him. He liked to imagine that each of those sand bags was Crowley's head. Castiel lingered behind and waited for Kevin. The teen loaded his gun, and shouted, "Clear!"

It was standard procedure for the newbies on the range, that all gunmen on premises had to shout the warning call for safety purposes. It was also standard procedure for the call to be echoed back as confirmation. So when Castiel didn't shout it back, Kevin paused, and craned back to stare at the angel. Castiel twitched, and shifted on his feet.

"-Clear."

Kevin turned back and aimed.

He got a twisted sense of euphoria when he succeeded in hitting one bag square on, and nicking another in three shots. Red sand would have been a great commodity.

—

It was Castiel's turn to step up. He stepped up to a neighboring column. This one had paper targets.

"Clear?" he asked, attempting to raise his sunken voice.

"Clear."

Castiel aimed, cupping his strong hand with his weak one. The stitches burned. He stared downrange, fixing names and faces to each target. Metatron, foremost. Most of them wound up being Metatron. The only other face he found himself pinning to the targets other than God's scribe, was his own.

_BANG!_

Metatron was dead.

_BANG!_

Metatron 2.0 was dead.

_BANG!_

Metatron 3.0 was dead.

_BANG!_

Castiel was still standing.

Castiel aimed again.

_BANG!_

The bullet was just shy of the paper this time.

_BANG!_

Miss.

Castiel's arms were shaking. His grip tightened. He grit his jaw to chew down the pain.

_BANG!_

Miss.

Anger surged.

He dropped his left hand, twitching the trigger.

_BANG-click-click-click!_

He had run dry.

Castiel saw that his last bullet pinholed the cinder block wall high up. A held breath was released, and he turned to see a concerned Kevin. Castiel didn't say anything, but he was aware that Kevin detected the aggression poured into the last bullet he punched out.

"Okay, I think it's time for a break."

Castiel didn't disagree. He checked his weapon, packed up his unused casings, and sauntered back to the armory. Kevin looked after him. He saw blood dripping from Castiel's left hand. Kevin quickly packed up and tailed the taller man.

Castiel was cleaning his gun tentatively when Kevin walked in. His motions were fluid, as he fed the pipe cleaner through the barrel and into the chamber. The smell of the oily fluid the brush was dipped in was thick. It wasn't too unpleasant, but he had smelled a ton of better things before. Kevin took a seat beside him on the bench and also got to work. By now, cleaning guns was relatively easy for both of them. Sam and Dean had lead them through the motions a hundred times before already. They could perform maintenance checks on their own now.

"Who were you shooting at?"

The question surprised Castiel. He stopped cleaning, and looked aside at Kevin. When Castiel didn't give him an answer, Kevin clear his throat and continued.

"I was shooting Crowley."

"...Metatron," Castiel lied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie.

"Metatron, the guy that saved my ass from Crowley?"

"...Yes."

Kevin nodded, then shrugged his shoulders. Sure, Metatron had snatched him right out of Crowley's grasp and brought him to Sam and Dean, but then he had to pull that dick move-

"Great tutor, yeah," Kevin was beginning to seethe lightly, grimacing, "Would've been nice if he had been there to help me read his chicken scratch from the start."

Castiel didn't know anything about Kevin's period of isolation. Kevin was massaging his temples. They got back to work quickly. One of phones in the shoe box began to ring. Kevin and Castiel looked up. Hesitantly, Kevin stood up and fished through the box. He pulled out a junky flip-phone.

"Hello?"


	5. Chapter 5

The Winchesters had just crossed the border. They weren't in Kansas anymore. Sam convinced Dean to stop off at the nearest gas station so they could grab an early lunch. Sam had left the bunker without breakfast. He was due for a pick-me-up. The two boys made themselves comfortable sitting on the hood of the Impala while they ate their deli sandwiches. For late-November, it was actually pretty warm out. They stocked the car with snacks for the road and were on their way. They had done so just in the nick of time, because Sam noticed a girl who had been watching them from inside a red Prius. She was sitting in the passenger seat at one of the gas pumps. He couldn't tell, but he naturally concluded that she was either an angel or a demon, neither of which made for pleasant company as far as they were concerned.

Sam's concern was only provoked again when he saw the Prius was following them. He saw that the pump nozzle was still lodged in the tank. The thick black hose was dragging on the asphalt behind the vehicle. Sam guessed she was an angel then. An angel with the same kind of ignorance as Castiel.

"Dean-"

"I know," the older brother cut him off, peeking at the rearview mirror. The Prius was gaining on them. Dean pressed down on the gas. The Impala jutted forward, picking up speed as it flew down the straight. Sam was looking out the back window. The Prius was still catching up with them.

—

"_Oh no_, don't you even _dare,_" Dean growled, when the Prius was riding his bumper. He was going to tear their pursuer a new one if she-

The Impala suddenly jolted, and Dean's rear treads scraped as he tried to keep the Impala straight. Dean's language became exponentially colorful. He put the pedal to the medal and straightened out the wheel. The Impala sped ahead, and all the while, Dean's innards felt itchy. He wanted to assess the damage as soon as possible, but at the same time he was not looking forward to what he would find.

"Dean, do you think a blood sigil would work at this range?!" Sam asked quickly as he kept a lookout for the angel.

"I don't know– no!" he amended just as hastily. Let's not forget that an angel is currently wearing Sam. If Sam used a banishing sigil, he could wind up banishing Ezekiel and himself. Dean suddenly recalled when Cas first betrayed Heaven and banished Zachariah from the Green Room in Van Nuys. Cas hadn't banished himself that time. But then when he used a sigil on their rescue mission for Adam Milligan, he wound up banishing himself. What was the difference in those two sigils that Cas had used? Was it because he had carved the sigil on himself that time? Damn it! If only he knew, then Sam could have used the same sigil without bearing the repercussions himself. Note to self: get even _more_ lessons on angel sigils from Cas.

The Prius was bearing down on them again. Dean's fists were tight around the steering wheel. Damn it, how were they gonna get out of this?

"Dean, twelve o'clock!" Sam shouted.

Up ahead, a police car was parked off the side of the road.

"Oh, no."

Great. This could only end badly.

"Buckle up, Sammy."

Sam was way ahead of him.

Dean gunned it.

The Impala roared past the patrol car, with the Prius racing right behind. Dean saw the lights go up, and the patrol car now joined their train in pursuit. Dean knew that the woman in the Prius wasn't going to just pull over for a cop. She was going to keep up with Sam and Dean no matter what.

A cell phone began to ring. It was Sam's. Talk about awful timing. Sam read the caller ID. Sorry, Kevin, it was gonna have to wait.

Dean's heart was sinking lower and lower the longer the chase led on. The cop was probably radioing in for back up. If they managed to get out of this, they'd have to ditch their plates _again_ if not the whole _car_. But thank God that at least they were in the middle of freaking nowhere and didn't have to worry about traffic. But then a realization struck him: spike strips.

"We are _so screwed_," Dean said a little hoarsely. It looked like this could be the end of the line. He looked over at his brother. Sam had sliced open his hand. He was painting a sigil on the window.

**"****_NO!_****"**

Sam's palm smacked the window, and a blinding light filled the car. Sam screamed raucously. Dean held on for dear life while trying to shield his eyes. The Impala swerved, but then the light vanished swiftly. Dean's grip on the steering wheel was locked. He looked to the passenger's seat. Sam was gone.

A loud crash from behind sent his attention out the back window. The Prius, now driver-less, flying at least at 70 miles per hour, ran off the road and flipped. Dean saw the vehicle turn over too many times to count the police car screeched to a halt at the wreck. The Impala left them both in the dust, shooting down the road.

"_Son of a bitch_," Dean barely got out in a breath. It actually worked.

But now Sam was gone, and God knows where he was now. Or if he was even still alive.

"DAMN IT!" Dean's fist hammered the dashboard. He was beginning to hyperventilate, and his eyes flickered in all directions as anxiety for his brother's well-being constricted his windpipe. Dean had more pressing matters at hand though. He forced himself to control his breaths, and calm himself. His biggest issue right now was putting as much distance between him and the wrecked Prius.

—

_"_I'm looking for Sam or Dean Winchester. Who is this?"_

"Uh- a friend of Sam and Dean's," Kevin answered quickly, "... Who is this?"

Remembering his phone conversation with Abaddon sent chills up his back. This person didn't sound like Abaddon though. Unless Abaddon suddenly felt compelled to occupy a man's body for whatever reason. God, he hoped not.

_"_William DeJaeger. A friend of Sam and Dean's."_

Was it just him, or did he detect sass in the man's voice? Whatever the case, this guy wasn't fooling around.

_"_Put them on the line, boy. Now."_

"_-_Sam and Dean aren't– here, right now," Kevin told the voice.

_"_Then you're gonna relay a message to them for me._"

"Okay-"

_"_The angels are gathering_._"_

The receiver clicked.

Kevin stared dumbly at the phone. He snapped it shut.

"Who was that?"

Kevin looked at Castiel.

"I don't know- some guy claiming to be Sam and Dean's friend. He said... he said the angels are gathering."

Kevin didn't know if the caller was using some kind of coded phrase, or if he literally meant _the angels are gathering_. If he was being literal, how did some random dude know about the angels? Had Dean spread the word about them? Castiel was on his feet now, looking very troubled. Kevin wasted no time in dialing Sam's number.

Sam didn't answer.

Kevin tried Dean's number.

Dean's phone must've been either shut off, or busy; he was directed straight to voicemail.

"Dean, it's Kevin. Call me back A.S.A.P., this is urgent. _The angels are gathering_." Kevin enunciated the quote into the phone as clearly as he could, before hanging up.

—

Castiel was looking around the room, staring distantly, even after Kevin hung up the phone. It had been a while since he had turned Angel Radio on, but the second he flipped the switch, voices flooded his head so that he could barely distinguish anything. He had never experienced problems with sifting through wavelengths before, but the only frequency available to him and was jammed up. He caught a few choice words though: _Gathering. Where? Demons. Uprising. Control. Opportunity. Crowley. Destroy. Abaddon. Garrison._ _Winchester._ _Castiel._ _Dead._

Castiel flipped the switch again. He faltered, but when he caught himself on a chair, he had used his stitched hand. He hissed sharply, alerting Kevin.

"Dude, you okay?"

"I heard them," he explained, "Too many of them, but I heard them."

"The angels? What are they saying?"

Castiel shook his head.

"I couldn't hear well. Angel Radio is jammed up with too many voices. I only caught small pieces."

"Small pieces are better than nothing," Kevin pressed, "What did they say?"

Castiel's eyes actually looked sad for the first time in a long time. This threw Kevin off a little. He wasn't well equipped to handle an emotional angel, should the angel reach that state.

"...They're banding together. They're building a new army to march across the land. I think they mean to declare war on the demons and Abaddon." The angel paused in thought, "...I think they see this as an opportunity to strike, since the King of Hell has gone "off the grid". ...This was to be expected," he said regretfully, "They refuse to coexist with demons. Naturally."

Kevin took a minute to absorb this interpretation.

"..._Oh, damn_," he said at last, into a hand that had covered his mouth as if to smother a gasp. "_Damn it, this is not good._"

Castiel conveniently left out the mention of his own name (and the Winchesters'). The angels clearly wanted him dead. That was old news.

"We should be safe here," he reminded the teen. The bunker was "the safest place on earth", so Dean had been told. It was warded against every being known to man. That included angels.

"God, we just can't catch a break can we?" Kevin sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"I believe we caught a break yesterday," Castiel pointed out.

"-Oh _shut up_."


	6. Chapter 6

Screw the job.

Screw it.

Dean immediately headed southbound, deviating from his original course to head east. It wasn't an easy call on his part, because he had absolutely no idea if driving south was brining him closer to or farther from his brother.

"_Damn it, Sam_," he muttered.

Dean was careful and avoided the interstate and other major routes. He stuck to local roads when he could. Once he felt he was safe enough, he found the nearest Department of Motor Vehicles and registered with the State of Missouri to get new plates. Obviously he registered under a false name and address. He walked out with his new plates, and drove himself to a secluded area to wrench off his old ones. Dean had grown strangely attached to his old plates, but he knew it was stupid to be sentimental over incriminating evidence. He buried his plates in the weeds. Good bye, CNK 80Q3.

He personally thought that the Missouri license plates looked plain and dull. At least Ohio's had some flare in the color scheme. But he wasn't going to fuss over it. He had to take a moment to breathe, however.

Sam was gone. God knows what happened to him. That sigil could've done a lot of damage to both him and Ezekiel. It could've even torn Ezekiel right out of Sam, but he preferred to think that it wasn't likely, for his own sanity's sake.

Sam could be dead. His heart stopped at that.

But then it continued pumping.

Dean flinched and scrambled for the Impala. He yanked open the driver's door and lunged onto the bench seat. His hands groped on and around the interior. Sam's cell phone. It was missing. Dean could only hope. And pray.

He turned on his cell phone. One missed call. It was from Kevin. He'd listen to the voice mail later. He dialed Sam's number.

"C'mon, c'mon, pick up-"

"__I'm sorry, the number you are trying to reach is not in service at this time. Please check your number or try your call again._"

"_...Damn it, Sam_."

Dean hung up, and brought his phone to his forehead, almost prayerfully. He stayed this way for a minute, before getting up, climbing into the car, and taking off again.

Rather than bee-lining back for the bunker, Dean situated himself at the nearest motel. There was a chance that Sam could actually be nearby, and he didn't want to blow town because of that possibility. Or he could have dropped halfway across the world in freaking China or something. This was going to drive him up a wall.

It was late afternoon now. Another day had come and gone, but nothing productive had gotten done. The only thing that Dean accomplished was managing to lose Sam _again_. The older Winchester stood outside of his motel room, sipping at a beer. It wasn't doing a whole lot to calm his fraying nerves. He stared out at the waning crescent moon that was beginning to fade into the canvas of evening sky blue. The landscape was scarcely accented with orange from the sun setting behind the building. He was a sitting duck. There wasn't anything that Dean could do at this point.

Except return Kevin's call.

Dean pulled out his phone and listened to Kevin's message.

_"Dean, it's Kevin. Call me back A.S.A.P., this is urgent. __The angels are gathering__."_

He dialed Kevin. It took two rings before the call went through.

"Kevin, I got your message."

_"_About freakin' time. What took you so long to drop me a line?"_

Dean had to bite his tongue. Hard.

"What did you mean by "the angels are _gathering_"?"

_"_One of your hunting buddies called, and he told me to pass it on to you."_

"Who?"

_"_William McJagger, or something like that."_

"Liam?"

Wow, talk about an old flame. Not in the romantic sense of course, but it had been a very long time since he got in touch with William.

_"_Yeah I guess. I told Castiel, and he thinks the angels are gonna start the apocalypse by butting heads with the demons and Abaddon._"

Dean held his tongue again. Kevin hadn't gone back that far with the Winchesters. He didn't know that they already had derailed the _actual apocalypse_.

"Wow. So... the angels are gonna kamikaze themselves against the demons? What are they thinking? They're virtually powerless against them."

_"_I don't know, but with Crowley down for the count, Abaddon's been amassing her own army, so maybe the angels became aware of it and are preparing a countermeasure."_

"Maybe," Dean rubbed his chin. He sighed.

_"_Something the matter?"_

Well, it was now or never.

—

Kevin and Castiel were huddled up in the library. Castiel was perched in front of the fireplace, which crackled and offered warmth. The angel held up his hands to warm them. The heat tickled his stitches. Kevin was reclined on a love seat with his laptop open. He was surfing YouTube for tutorials on sword-fighting techniques. He really wanted to try handling some of the older equipment in the armory. He had a bowl of chips nearby.

_"_..I lost Sam, Kevin."_

"You _lost_ Sam?" This made Kevin lurch up in his seat. "How? He's not dead is he-? Tell me he's not dead."

"_... I don't know. I really don't know."

"Well what the hell happened?!" Kevin sparely noticed that Castiel was standing at attention, his brows knit with obvious concern.

_"___An angel happened. Sam used an angel-banishing sigil to get rid of an angel that was hunting us down, but he whammied himself in the process. I don't know what happened to him, but he just disappeared from right beside me._"

"An angel-banishing sigil?" Kevin wasn't exactly up to speed on Enochian magic.

"Kevin, let me speak to Dean."

Kevin looked up to see that Castiel was practically looming over him. Even now, Castiel seemed to have little regard of personal space.

"Hold on," he told Dean, then clicked a button, "Dean, you're on speaker now."

"Dean, can you hear me?"

_"_Yeah, Cas, I can hear you."_

"Did Sam use an angel-banishing sigil on himself?"

_"_Yeah, accidentally, yeah. He got flung to God knows where."_

"If Ezekiel is still with Sam, there is a chance that I could bring him back to the bunker."

_"_What- you could?"_

"Yes. If I can find all of the ingredients here in the bunker's storage pantry, I could perform a summoning spell on Ezekiel, and Sam would get pulled back to the bunker with him. ...I can't make a promise that I will succeed," he tagged on at the end.

_"_Dude, go for it! It's worth a friggin' shot! Just- ...get Sam back safely if you can."_

"I'll do my best," Castiel nodded.

—

Castiel sent Kevin to find four candles, a lighter, and a bowl. He himself got to work on drawing the required sigil on the floor in chalk. He started with a circle, divided into four quadrants, then marked each quadrant with an Enochian letter. The outside of the sigil was mark as well. The outside Enochian symbols were designed to spell Ezekiel's name. Kevin came back with tea lights, and even though they were small, Castiel said, "They will suffice."

He placed the candles at the four corners of the sigil, where the lines dividing the quadrants touched the circle of the sigil. Castiel took off into the recesses of the bunker and searched high and low for substances meant for spell-casting. At last he found the room and didn't hesitate to barge in. He swept the shelves, and boxes. By a stroke of luck, he found everything that he needed. He wasted no time in returning to the library.

Castiel mixed the herbs and spices accordingly from his memory in the bowl, centering the concoction at the intersection of the sigil. He fished in his pockets, and pulled out something woven, a small trinket and set it before the bowl. He took the matches from Kevin and lit the candles. Then he erected himself before the sigil, and dropped the match into the bowl. No incantation was required.

The bowl's contents lit ablaze, and Kevin sprang back, not having expected the explosion of fire. It quickly died down though, and the two of them looked around. Usually, with an angel-summoning, the angel in question would appear instantaneously. Sam (or Ezekiel, rather) were unannounced. They waited. And waited.

"If the banishing sigil worked on Sam, why didn't the summoning one work-?" Kevin asked the angel. Castiel stared down at the sigil at his feet. He was quiet. Yet another attempt to redeem himself was thwarted.

"...Either Ezekiel is dead, or both the angel and the vessel are too damaged for the transport."

It was with much regret that Castiel later told Dean over the phone, once again, and likely not for the last time, "I'm sorry, Dean."


	7. Chapter 7

Kevin glanced at the clock. It was eight. He slapped his book shut. There wasn't a whole lot to do while locked up in the bunker, so Kevin figured that he might as well do some studying. After going so long without a clockwork schedule, it was hard to pick up a book and start reading again. He was reading about different types of fairies. It was nuts. Fairies actually existing. But then again, angels and demons existed, so why couldn't fairies exist too?

Kevin heard shots. Castiel was back in the training room working on his marksmanship again. The high school dropout understood the reason that the bedroom cubbies were on one end of the bunker and the training room was on the far opposite end, beneath the gravel road outside. Those shots were pretty loud. He picked up his now empty chip bowl and deposited it in the kitchen sink.

So Sam was gone.

Of course Dean wasn't the only one who was worried. Both of the Winchesters were family to Kevin. Dean himself had confirmed that. Kevin remembered the first time that he actually met Ezekiel. It was one of the freakiest things that the young man had yet to experience (only being outdone by Crowley by a long shot).

Kevin had joined Sam and Dean on a hunt involving demons. But they found themselves in a very tight bind. Kevin and Sam had buddied up, and Dean went off by himself. They were overwhelmed. Kevin had been ready to kiss the world good bye. But then something incredible happened. In a glimpse, he saw the terror in Sam's eyes quickly being outshone. Literally. The man's eyes pried opened and were _glowing_. They were an electric blue. He didn't know what was happening, but suddenly light pulsed powerfully from Sam's body, and the demons that were attacking him were fended off, staggering back. The demons that had a hold of Kevin were jolted too.

Sam had risen to his feet, and he was completely shrouded in light, but it was the Grace that terrified Kevin. On the wall behind Sam, two shadowy visages grew from Sam's silhouette. They quivered, stretching outward, curling upward in a threatening display. The appendages looked horridly mangled, most of the feathers stripped. The few pinions and primaries that the wings still had were being shed in bits of feathery down. Kevin shielded his eyes when Sam thrust more waves of energy outward in all directions. A God-awful ring pierced the air and all windows in the immediate vicinity were shattered. When Kevin uncovered his eyes, Sam was staring down at him menacingly.

_"You are not a demon. What are you?"_

Shaken in the moment, Kevin gave a stammering response to Sam that was similar to the one that he had given him when they first met at Castiel's mental hospital in Indiana.

_"Sam, i-it's me! K-Kevin Tran!"_

_"Kevin Tran?"_

_"YEAH?!"_

Sam's bodily luminance faded, the wings disappearing with it, and Sam looked like Sam again. Except the way he was peering at him. It was uncharacteristic for Sam.

_"You are the prophet."_

_"YEAH, WE'VE BEEN THROUGH THIS ALREADY-"_

Kevin remembered being dragged from the room by Dean shortly yelped and flailed as the older Winchester hauled him out by the jacket.

_"DEAN, WHAT THE HELL?!"_

_"WAIT HERE."_

Dean shoved an angel blade into his hands and disappeared back into the room with Sam. Kevin shook visibly, clutching the blade close, expecting more demons to show up at any second. Dean had done a poor job of trying to mute his conversation with Sam. Or _Ezekiel_.

_"Zeke, __what the hell?__ I told you that you were not to overshadow Sam in front of Kevin __ever__." _

_"It couldn't be helped, Dean. I am sorry."_

_"Yeah well now I've got a freaked out kid to handle!"_

_"I did not recognize Kevin Tran. Not at first. I've been dormant in Sam's mind for most of this time. My first priority was to protect Sam, as you've instructed before."_

He heard Dean sigh.

_"Yeah, well... I guess he was bound to find out sooner or later anyway."_

_"Okay, can somebody tell me WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?!"_

Kevin was practically an adult. He wasn't gonna just sit tight outside and wait for some bastards to come get him. He had a right to know, didn't he? Sam and Dean looked at each other. It would be best if Dean explained, they decided nonverbally. Dean stepped forward.

_"Alright look, first off, if you tell Sam any of this, I __will__ castrate you."_

_"Sam's right there, genius!"_

_"That's not Sam."_

_"...What?"_

_"Kevin, Ezekiel. Ezekiel, Kevin Tran."_

Kevin didn't like being in on this big secret, but he didn't have a choice. It was an actual matter or life or death for Sam. And he liked his nuts where they were, thank you very much. Since their introductions, Kevin had to force himself to act natural around Sam. He was terrible actor, and on more than one occasion Dean had to pull him aside and tell him to get his act together. But this was just freaking _weird. _Sam was being co-piloted by a _Castiel knock-off. _Since the incident, Ezekiel's appearances remained very seldom, and he would only surface when necessary. Thankfully. Having Ezekiel transition with Sam too often would drive Kevin nuts.

Kevin changed his clothes this time. He raked his fingers through his black hair, and settled down under the blankets. He knew that the gig would be up sooner or later. Kevin was by no means religious, but he would have prayed tonight, if there was no risk of his prayer being heard on Angel Radio. He hoped that Sam was okay. Kevin went to sleep with the sound of muffled gunshots popping through the walls.

—

Castiel was practicing again. He wisened up a little and chose to wrap his stitched hand. He also took painkillers this time. He didn't know how many he should take, so he guessed five tablets would be a good number to start at. It was a good thing that he hadn't just downed the whole bottle, which was an option that _had_ crossed his mind. But he read the label carefully, and it warned against doing that. It also told him that it would take time for the pills to kick in.

Castiel was doing paper targets again. The mess from their earlier practice went uncleaned, so he had to walk down a few extra columns. He had dug around in the armory prior to, and managed to find headphones that looked pretty bulky. But when he tried them on, he couldn't hear a thing. God bless ear protection; the Men of Letters had such a thing even back then.

The angel was set and ready to go. He had three boxes of ammunition. He planned to use it all tonight. He had his Smith & Wesson primed. He stepped forward, adjusting the headphones to sit more comfortably on his head. He stared intensely at the targets. Once again, he affixed names and faces to them. Castiel went wild. He tried different stances, like how he had seen men (and women) do on TV. He even raced up and down the aisle, shooting at all the different types of targets that were available. Sure, it was reckless, but it gave Castiel the thrill of actual combat. He would even step past the cement barriers and into the range median itself, darting to and fro, unloading his gun into the faces of his adversaries. A demon here. An angel there. And plenty of Metatron to go around. But inevitably, Castiel wound up tacking his own face once again, and he stopped before one of the sand bags. He aimed.

_BANG!_

Miss.

_BANG!_

Miss.

Castiel stepped closer.

_BANG!_

Miss.

He stepped closer again.

_BANG!_

Miss.

And again. Both hands on the grip.

_BANG!_

Miss.

Castiel's face twisted in anger, and he walked his shots right to the sand bag.

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

He was now standing at point-blank range.

_Click!_

Castiel stared for the longest moment at the sand bag.

_"You're the famous spanner in the works. Honestly, I think you came off the line with a crack in your chassis. You have never done what you were told, not completely. You don't even die right, do you?"_

Castiel's exhale was shaken.

Naomi's words rang true.

Many times Castiel experienced death, and yet he always came back. God knows how, but he never once before failed to surprise with recurring introductions. It was funny that even now he couldn't succeed in drilling one bullet into his own head.

—

Dean's sleep was dreamless, and nearly entirely restless. Sam was nowhere near him and he still managed to mess with his head. He cracked his eyes open. He was starting to wish that he had gotten himself some company for the night. Vigorous physical activity might have helped him to sleep better. But he felt that he was already getting too old for the frisky activities of his yesteryears. Plus after that one time with that Amazon warrior-

"Ugh-" he still shivered when he thought about it.

Dean was more than ready for breakfast. There was a quaint little diner down the street that caught his interest. He thought he'd check it out. Pulling his phone off the charger, Dean slipped out of the motel and moseyed down the street. No need to burn gas to go down less than a block. He didn't leave without a concealed knife though. Silver. Or a small canteen of holy water. _Or _an angel blade up his sleeve–

An electronic bell rang when he entered the diner. He looked around and the atmosphere gave off a pretty satisfactory feeling.

"Good morning!" Dean looked to see a short man emerge from the dining room, "It's early, so you get first dibs, Sir! Seat yourself anywhere!" He had a hearty little laugh that warmed Dean's heart. The man reminded him of those dream grandpas everyone from TV wished they had. Dean slid into a booth against a windowless wall. At least the service was immediate. Dean got his menu, his coffee, and his meal in less than thirty minutes. Dean added pie to the bill. It was early, sure, but he couldn't resist a slice of that scrumptious-looking pumpkin pie that he spied in the display case up front.

Dean looked over the bill with a small smile that must've showed he was hurting.

"Pardon me for prying, but are you alright, Sir?" his waiter asked. Dean swiftly quickly in his seat. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell him, "I'm fine", but that wasn't what came out. After a moment's hesitation, he folded up the bill in his fingers.

"–No. No, I'm not."

He didn't know why it was easier to tell the truth to this man than to lie. Lying was second nature to Dean. Maybe it was those aged eyes that look on him with sympathy. He had never really accepted sympathy from anyone before, especially strangers. This was a first for Dean Winchester.

Since Dean was the only patron in the diner, the old man took a seat across from him.

"How come?" he asked, then added, "-If it's alright to ask."

And Dean came clean.

"... I lost my brother."

The man listened.

"I lost him, and I can't find him. He just– vanished."

There seemed to be some relief in the man's eyes, which told Dean that by "lost", he must've assumed "dead".

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have any idea where he could be?"

"Not a clue."

"Did you file a missing persons?"

"Yeah."

Dean looked down at his hands.

In a heartbeat, Dean was up, and fishing out his wallet to pay the bill.

"Thanks, Geoffrey," he said, quickly noting the man's impish name tag.

He left a ten-dollar tip. For the pie of course.

"Good luck, Sir!" Geoffrey called after him.

Dean stole down the sidewalk back to the motel. What was he even doing here? Camping out in some ramshackle town wasn't productive at all. There was nothing that he could do about Sam. His brother was Gone-With-the-Wind MIA, and there was no way to track him. The only thing he could do now was to haul his own ass up to Wainesville and finish the job he had originally set out to do. He might as well keep busy. He would just have to hope that he would find his brother by some miracle.


	8. Chapter 8

Kevin awoke with a start. Castiel was shaking him.

"Wake up."

"Oh, man,_ come on_," the prophet complained, "It's too early. What do you _want?_"

"Myrrh."

"_What?-OH GOD!_" he yelped when Castiel suddenly grabbed him right out bed and towed him to the library. Kevin stumbled behind haphazardly. "CASTIEL! LET GO!"

Kevin learned his first lesson about angels: _don't_ piss them off.

He shut up when he saw what Castiel was trying to get him out of bed for. On the table in the library, a sigil had been drawn. It was different from the sigil that Castiel drew yesterday, but it followed the aesthetics of the large circle. There was a bowl in the center of the sigil.

"Uh, what the hell are you doing?" Kevin asked apprehensively.

"Trying to track Sam," was Castiel's curt response, "Kevin, I need your help."

"Okay- with what?"

Castiel seized his wrist. A knife came down upon Kevin's upturned hand and sliced his palm open. Kevin screamed. Castiel squeezed the writhing boy's palm to milk the blood from his hand into the bowl. Castiel's iron grip slacked, and the first hing that Kevin did was wallop the angel with the first solid object that he could find (which happened to be a table lamp).

"WHAT THE HELL?!" he screeched, panting and gasping as he clenched on the bleed. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

—

Castiel's jaw was grit as he nursed the pain in his right shoulder. Better his shoulder than his head though. Kevin had a nasty swinging arm.

"I needed human blood," he confessed.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST USE YOUR OWN?!"

As soon as the words left Kevin's mouth, they were both silent. Kevin was getting blood everywhere. Castiel stared Kevin down, and Kevin regretted his retaliation amidst the pain he was in.

"I _did_ try using my own," Castiel informed him sharply, "Apparently I'm not _human_ enough."

Kevin didn't stick around any longer. He fled to the bathroom for a towel. Castiel resumed his spell work. He had a second bowl nearby. It was filled with water. The angel picked up a rosary that he found, and recited the blessing in Latin.

"_Exorcizo te, creatura aquae. In nomine dei patris omnipotentis et in virtute spiritus sancti._"

Castiel dropped the rosary into the basin. He listened to the beads click against the metal when they sank to the bottom. He was glad that Bobby had taught him how to make holy water before he died. He returned to the first basin, and dropped chips of myrrh resin that he found into Kevin's blood. The angel cleared his throat, and slowly poured the holy water into the bowl

"_Zamran ils soba vpaah zixlai grosb._"

The concoction began to steam this time. The vapor wafted from the bowl, and Castiel trained his gaze into the mixture as the myrrh dissolved in a pinkish foam. His perception was weaker, but he drilled his focus into determining the information that would be relayed to him, if this worked. He searched for what seemed like forever, when at last he was enlightened.

Castiel rushed for the nearest phone.

—

"Hi, I'm Agent Barnes," Dean greeted the pathologist at the morgue and introduced himself with a flash of a fake ID. "I was called in on a case, three stiffs rising from the _dead_ and walking?"

"Oh yeah," the pathologist peered at his badge, before turning away, "Jack Miller. Didn't know the feds were called in on this one."

"Well, we've got our affinities for the strange cases-" Dean pardoned himself easily, "So, uh, what's the story?"

"Exactly as stated in the file," the balding man told him matter-of-factly. Dean hated when he had to deal with tough nuts like this one. "Three guys–Anthony Treck, Joseph Harris, and Daniel Smith–leave the Wainseville Hospital, they all collapse at the same time, they _die_, and then they're up and at 'em again. But each of 'em is now disabled in some way."

"Yes, yes, the blindness, deafness, and muteness," Dean confirmed. "If you don't mind, I'd like to see the refrigerators that you kept our golden boys in."

"Yeah, right this way."

Dean followed Jack to the room in question.

"Have at it, agent."

Dean was then left to himself and his paperwork. Anthony had been in drawer 6, Joseph was in drawer 4, and Daniel was in drawer 7. He checked them all, and found that drawer 4 was already being occupied by someone else. He would have scanned for EMF, but this whole building was generating high levels of electricity.

His phone suddenly rang.

When looking, he didn't recognize the number. He pressed "Send".

"Hello?"

_"_Dean_._"_

"Cas?"

_"_Dean, I found Sam."_

"What? You did? Where is he?" Dean had to control himself from raising his voice too high.

_"_I'm going to go find him, Dean."_

"No, Cas, you have to stay put! Just tell me where he is, and I'll find him myself."

_"_You don't understand. I __need__ to do this."_

"Why?!"

_"_... I need redemption."_

"What are you talking about?! Is this about your OCD-thing?! Man, I thought we got that straightened out! Cas, this one is _not on you_, it's on _me._"

All Dean heard was noise pollution in his speaker.

"...Cas?"

There was a flurry of movement on the other end of line.

_**"CASTIEL-"**_

_Click._

* * *

**Note: The English spelling of the tracking incantation (which Castiel used to track Balthazar in 6x03 "The Third Man") is misleading for the actual pronunciation. The Enochian translation phonetically could roughly amount to the following:**

**"Zo da ma ran I es la vo pah ah xi ge ro sa be ex lah."**

**_Thank you for following along with me this far on the Team's journey. _**


	9. Chapter 9

Kevin groaned as he squeezed down on his bleeding hand. The burgundy towel stained darker than its original color, but the prophet was more concerned about himself than the fabric. He gnashed his teeth hatefully. Damn it, if Castiel needed his blood so badly, why hadn't he just asked? It if meant finding Sam and bringing him home, he would have given the blood a little more willingly.

Again, his phone rang. He picked up.

"Dean?"

_"_Kevin, listen to me. Cas is gonna leave the bunker and try to find Sam on his own. Lock it down __right now__."_

"What?"

_"_LOCK THE BUNKER DOWN!"_

Kevin's phone clattered on the sink counter. He dashed for the main corridor, and halted in his tracks.

"CASTIEL!"

The angel stopped halfway up the stairs. He looked at Kevin for a minute, before he continued his way up the stairs. Kevin panicked. He reflexively reached for the handgun that Dean had taped under the center table. He tore it out, and whipping it up at the angel.

"STOP!"

Everything seemed to slow down for Kevin in that moment. He was pointing a gun at a member of his own "family". This was way different from those few times that he had to point at actual monsters. Kevin's arms and hands were shaking. Beads of blood dripped from his hands and fingers. Castiel was not a monster. Was he?

Kevin's breathing was starting become sporadic, and he slowly walked to the control panels while keeping his barrel locked on the stationary man. He felt his way for the switches, and clicked them. The bunker door locked itself with a synchrony of loud clangs, and a second door slid down from the opening to seal off the entrance pocket completely. Castiel didn't take his eyes off of Kevin. Even after the bunker was locked down completely, the young prophet was too afraid to lower his gun.

—

Castiel saw the fear in Kevin's eyes. Seeing fear-riddled eyes wasn't new to him at all. But he felt a strong conviction, one that was very human. Slowly, carefully, he descended.

"Kevin, you can put the gun down," Castiel assured him. Kevin didn't seem convinced. Why should he be? Castiel was taller and stronger than him, and he had eyes that could be cutting-edge menacing when he wanted them to be. Castiel was the perfect threat. It was understandable that Kevin would only feel secure with a gun between them. Castiel carefully stepped closer. Kevin shifted, raising the barrel. The angel stopped where he was.

"-I won't try to leave the bunker," he attempted to reason, keeping a calm, steady voice. Gradually, he made his way to the center table. Kevin's sight never strayed from him. Castiel took a seat, and he leaned over his knees. He exhaled quietly. He watched the prophet slowly, slowly, lower his defense.

"You're very bloody," the angel took the liberty of pointing it out.

Kevin inspected himself. There was blood splatter on his shirt and pants. His hands and wrists were a sticky mess of bright-to-dark red. He looked back up to Castiel.

"Yeah, not exactly my fault, is it?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry."

"Shut up. You're always _"sorry"_, so just shut up."

Castiel complied.

After a good long minute of silence, Kevin walked off, receding from the main corridor. Castiel waited, before standing up and zeroing in on the control panels. He found the set of switches to unlock the bunker doors and shut down the security measures, but to his dismay, activating the switches required a key. A key that Kevin probably was holding on his person. Quietly he traced after Kevin, to the bedroom chambers. As he got closer, he could hear Kevin's voice coming from the bathroom.

"Yeah, I'll get the location. Don't worry, he's not going anywhere... No problem."

Castiel stood outside the bathroom door, out of sight.

"Just- get back here as soon as possible. ...Okay."

Castiel stepped into the doorway. Kevin, who was facing the mirror, caught his reflection right away. He moved in quickly. Kevin yelled out, dropping his phone, as Castiel grabbed him and shoved his head down, bashing the back of his skull against the sink counter. Kevin crumpled on the floor.

_"_Kevin?! KEVIN?!"_

Castiel heard Dean's voice coming from Kevin's phone. He knelt beside the unconscious boy, and found a bloody key strung on a chain around his neck.

_"_CASTIEL!"_

The angel froze. He stared at Kevin's phone.

_"_CASTIEL, I KNOW YOU'RE THERE! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! DON'T BE A DUMBASS, CAS. YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS. I CAN COME BACK TO THE BUNKER, AND WE CAN GO FIND SAM TOGETHER."_

Cowardice choked him. He couldn't bring himself to answer Dean. Or even touch Kevin's phone.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean abandoned the job.

Right now he was racing for the bunker. His jaw was locked tight. Cas had stepped way over the line this time. ...As if he hadn't done that before. So Cas was acting out because he was seeking _redemption?_ If he was, then Cas was doing a real crappy job trying to climb out of that ever-deepening hole. It was actually more like a chasm at this point. No matter what Cas did, he always managed to somehow make everything worse. He was the jinx of the millenium. God, Dean wanted to punch something. He didn't always get violent when he was angry, but he hoped for Cas's sake that his anger would burn out by the time he found him. Otherwise he might throttle the angel without a second thought upon sighting.

More importantly, was Kevin okay? Cas wouldn't kill Kevin over something this incredibly _asinine_ would he? No way he would. But again, Cas had a habit of overstepping his bounds. He wasn't _weak_, not even as a human (even though when comparing to what he once was, the angel certainly believed he was weak). But he underestimated himself all the time. What Castiel called "weak" was still almost inhumanly strong to Dean. He didn't know how that was, what with his Grace stolen, but where there was a will, there was a way. Dean tried dialing Kevin's number again. No answer. Damn it. The Winchester tossed the phone aside on the bench seat and drilled the road ahead of him with his eyes as if it would help him to arrive at the bunker sooner.

—

Kevin's eyes slowly peeled open. Though he was disoriented, reality struck him a glancing blow.

With a gasp he jolted upright. An intense bought of pain pursued him, and his head throbbed so badly that a loud moaning hiss slipped between his teeth. He held his head, but then he saw the blood on and around him. The pain in his right hand shot back and he snapped his hand from his hair. He was breathing in tears and shreds, and he struggled to pull himself up, using the sink for support. Oh God, the pain he was in. Upon looking down, he wasn't surprised (but despaired) to see that the key he had been wearing was gone. But then he noticed something else, on his hand. Bandaging. But he was getting a funny sensation from the wound as well. It both tickled and stung like needles. He shyly loosened the gauze to peek.

Stitches.

He had stitches.

The first step that Kevin took kicked his cell phone, skidding it over the tiles before clacking against the wall. Kevin tucked his tender hand into a fresh hand towel and picked up his phone. He nearly fell over when he stooped, and grabbed the towel rack to keep him steady. Castiel, that son of a bitch-

Three missed calls from Dean Winchester.

He should probably call Dean back to let him know that he wasn't freaking dead. But first, he had to do something to relieve his pain. He stumbled out of the bathroom and barely made it to the kitchen. His body was fighting him in every possible way. He felt absolutely weak. He tore through the medicine cabinet for aspirin. He chugged as many tablets as safely possible. No water. Kevin felled himself into the nearest chair at the center table in the main corridor. He sat there for the longest while, waiting impatiently for the numbing to kick in. He spied the key, blood-stained, sticking out of the control panel. He carefully lay his head on the cool wood of the table, smushing his right cheek. His eyes were on the door of the bunker. He failed. Dean was going to be pissed beyond belief. He didn't call Dean back. The call could wait.

—

Castiel was on a bus. He sat alone against the window. He had a backpack occupying the seat next to him. All things considered, he was glad that Kevin had tried to stop him from leaving the bunker. He would have left without any supplies. Quite stupidly. There was a towel in his lap. An angel blade was wrapped up in the bundle. This wouldn't be the first time that the angel had lived on the road. He already hated the prospect of being homeless once again.

The bus was headed in a northwest direction. It was crucial that Castiel arrive at Sam's location as soon as possible, lest he arrive only to find him long gone. But if worse came to worse, Castiel could just perform another tracking ritual. He had taken a few vials of blood from Kevin before leaving. He had also done him a kindness by stitching up his hand. Or attempting to, at least. Truthfully, he knew that he hadn't done the best job. He wasn't a medic by profession. But at least he knew to disinfect the cut.

And speaking of cuts, Castiel was nursing his own. He might have possibly loosened Sam's stitches on his own hand when he tried the angel-tracking ritual the first time with his own blood. He tried to stitch up his own hand and bite through the pain, but he couldn't. Not even after drugging himself up. He was too chicken. But he brought the needle and thread with him. He would try again later. But for now, every bump in the ride would ache.

So what did Castiel pack up and take with him?

Mostly, his provisions consisted of bottled water. He also stuffed non-perishable food into the bag. Chips, candy bars (which were Dean's), and fruit. To Castiel, managing his hunger and thirst was top priority over the course of his travels. The only article of clothing that Castiel packed was an extra turtleneck. It wasn't going to kill him to wear the same clothes every day. Or to abstain from personal hygienics. And he brought weapons. Along with his angel blade, he had sifted through the armory and selected weapons that he thought would be useful; knives, a bag of salt, rosaries, a spray can of red paint, and his Smith & Wesson with two boxes of ammunition. Lastly, he had a map. That was all he needed.

At the end of the line, Castiel got off the bus. It took him a little time to get his bearings on this unfamiliar town, but once he knew where he was, he started walking. He found the nearest store and headed inside, going directly for the front counter.

"Hello?"

"Yes?" answered an old woman with curly silvered hair and glasses, "What can I help you with?"

"Do you have something to write with? A marker would be most preferable," he nodded. A little off-put by this strange request, the woman slowly moved back from the counter. She handed him a Sharpie.

"-Here."

"Thank you."

And he walked right out. Just like that.

Castiel went dumpster-diving. Well, not literally.

It took him longer than he would have liked, but he found what he was looking for. A slab of cardboard. Kneeling on the ground, he hunched over it with the Sharpie and got to work, scratching out words in messy scribbles. It took more effort from him than the average (English-speaking) human, to complete his task. He wasn't accustomed to writing the Roman alphabet as much as he was speaking with (or even reading) it. He darkened the lines, and when he felt satisfied, he admired his handiwork from afar. The sign was ready.

The angel walked along the open road, carrying his sign with absolutely no shame. It was lost on him. He was far more concerned with reaching Sam. Drivers that came his way all saw the same message in capital letters: "I NEED A RIDE." As of yet, his attempt to hitchhike properly wasn't hitting off so well as he had hoped.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean was back in Kansas. Only one more hour left before he'd be back at the bunker. Kevin wasn't calling him back. The more time that passed, the more Dean feared the worst. _Castiel, you son of a bitch, Kevin better be breathing when I get there_, the hunter thought. Even despite the getaway he had been a part of the afternoon before, he took the highway. But he was stuck behind some jackass who was going five miles under the speed limit. And the passing line was clogged up with cars zipping by. Honking his horn wouldn't have done much good, so Dean turned on the cassette player. Maybe playing some of his favorite tunes would help to calm his nerves.

His phone rang.

Dean nearly swerved the Impala when leaning over to snatch it up and picked up.

"Kevin? Kevin, are you alright?!"

_"_Dean, it's me."_

Dean gaped.

"_Sam?!_"

—

Kevin heard thunder. It sounded louder than it should have been. He picked up his head, and looked to the bunker door. It was wide open. Immediately Kevin was on his feet. He grabbed a sword from the closest display case, one with a curved blade, and carefully climbed the stairs. His heart was thumping mercilessly in his chest. The bunker door wasn't open when he passed out on the center table, and he highly doubted that the wind rustling outside in the tall trees was strong enough to just push a reinforced door open. Something had gotten inside the bunker. He didn't know how, considering the place was warded against every being known to man. Unless it was human.

Kevin shut the bunker door and locked it tight. He turned back around, and looked over the bunker from the railing high up. Thunder rumbled, muffled, outside. When he looked down, he froze.

"...Sam?!" he shouted down, grasping the railing.

Sure enough, almost right beneath him, Sam Winchester was craning his head upward. Sam didn't respond, but he only stared back up at Kevin. The prophet descended the stairs quickly.

"Thank God-!"

He stopped himself.

Sam was still staring at him.

"-Oh," he realized, "...Ezekiel?"

Kevin didn't like way _Samekiel_ was looking at him. Those were the same eyes that he had seen the first time they met.

A ring hummed in the air, and Sam's body was aglow. The battered wings extended from Sam's shadow once again, and Sam's stance widened with the slow sliding of his feet, looking as if he was ready to spring.

"Ezekiel?"

Ezekiel didn't answer.

Kevin backed away.

"Ezekiel what are you doing?"

The ringing intensified, and Kevin cringed, covering his ears. His voice seeped out with each breath as he was being gripped tight with terror. Sam's eyes were aglow again. That same magnetic blue was alight. Sam's shadow was growing larger and larger with the aid of Ezekiel's wingspan.

"Ezekiel?!" he tried to yell over the deafening keen. Adrenaline was bucking through his veins, through his heart with every pump. Fight or flight mode. But Kevin was doing neither. He was too frightened to move. The energy radiating from Sam was beginning to overwhelm him, and a wailing screech tore from his throat.

Kevin jolted up from the center table, pain shredding through his head and right hand. His throat felt raw as he sucked air in deep heaves. He whimpered as he backed up from the table, grasping his throbbing head.

"_Oh God,_" he croaked, backing up against the control panel as he looked around wildly for a _Samekiel_ who wasn't there. The bunker door was locked fast still. A nightmare.

Kevin curled up on the floor of the bunker, against the wall. He buried his head in his arms. The burst of energy that he had gotten just before had passed its climax. The prophet was on the downhill again, feeling drained. He listened to a purr of late seasonal thunder overhead.

—

"Where the hell are you, Sam?!" Dean barked into his phone. He didn't like the looks of those clouds off to the west ahead of him. There was a storm waiting to welcome him, it seemed. Dean was coming up to Topeka, and had just passed Lawrence on Interstate 70. Home, bittersweet home. But home wasn't where his heart was. He still had a long way to get to Lebanon, where the bunker was tucked away.

_"_Douglas, Wyoming. Dean, what the hell happened? I was in the Impala with you, and I got slammed by my own sigil and dropped in the middle of freakin' nowhere. And what happened to Kevin?!"_

"Whoa, one question at a time!" Dean cautioned, "–Cas got the drop on Kev."

_"_What? Cas attacked Kevin?!"_

Diversion was successful.

"Look, long story short, the idiot went looking for you. He said he knew where you were. Kevin tried to stop him from leaving the bunker."

_"_Well is he okay?!"_

"I don't know, Sam! I was on the job when it happened! I'm on my way back to the bunker right now."

_"_Hold on. You were working the case? Wh–Did you even __try__ looking for me?!"_

"What kinda stupid-ass question is that?!" Dean shouted into the phone, "Of course I did! But how the friggin' hell was I supposed to know where to even begin looking?!"

There was silence on the other end.

"Sam?"

_"_I'm here."_

Dean found himself short on words.

"—You doing okay?"

_"_I guess... If being stranded in the wilderness with a battered body and an __angel__ inside me constitutes being __okay__. Then, by all means, I'm fabulous."_

Dean's heart dropped.

Sam knew.

...

Sam knew, and he was _still alive_.

_"_Dean, why didn't you tell me?"_

The older brother hesitated.

"–Any more stupid questions you got up your sleeve, Sammy?"

_"_Dean, I had a __right to know!__"_

"NO YOU DIDN'T!"

_"_IT'S MY DAMNED BODY AND IT'S MY DAMNED LIFE! ARE YOU INSANE?!"_

"**SAM!**" Dean didn't think he could get his voice any higher. "-I will _not have this conversation right now, do you hear me?_ _Save it for the reunion._"

Silence lingered over the line. Dean exhaled into the speaker lightly.

"... How long?"

_"_...Not until you picked up the phone. ...Since New York?"_

"-Yeah."

More silence. Dean could picture that his brother was nodding his head, pressing his lips thin the way he did when having to swallow hard truths.

_"_And Cas is coming for me?"_

"Yeah."

_"_Guess I better sit tight then."_

"I'm gonna go check on Kevin first, then I'm shagging ass to Douglas to come get you."

_"_Yeah."_

"–Stay safe," Dean said without thinking.

_"_...Yeah, you too."_


	12. Chapter 12

Sam wasn't kidding when he told Dean that he had gotten dropped in the middle of nowhere. The Thunder Basin National Grassland got an unexpected tourist. The Winchester had landed backside-down in the middle of an expanse of flat terrain, hidden well out of any sight in a nest of tall grasses. Getting up was impossible at first. When he jerked to sit up, something snapped inside of him, and he bellowed out in pain, flattening again. His cry went unheard. It was so hard to breathe, and with the sun shining down on him, he was blinded to almost everything else going on around him. Which wasn't much to speak of. He was in the middle of nowhere.

But then incredibly, Sam could get up. The pain was still reminiscent, but he could get up and walk with nary a stumble in his step. He looked around and saw... nothing. A great expanse of nothing. There was dry grass all around him, and dark green tufts of strange bushes(?). He didn't know what they were. He looked behind himself, and saw a thin crisp of blue mountain range far off in the distance. There was no telling just how far those mountains were. Out in the Great Plains, flat terrain was excellent at deceiving the eye. Depth perception was thrown completely out of whack. If Sam headed for those mountains, it could wind up taking him _days_ by foot. Sam figured that his best bet was to follow the sun, which was hanging towards the south.

Sam felt around in his pockets. He had his phone, by his luck. But of course it was a give-and-take. Sam's phone was busted from his hard landing. Defeated, he dropped his arms and tucked the device back into his pocket. He looked around again. Well, it wasn't like he could call Dean and tell him just where he was, anyway. He was in the middle of freakin' _nowhere._

Sam had to trek through miles of fields and sandy, rocky bluffs before he found his first road. Had he not been in a state of delusion, he might have appreciated the scenery more. There were beautiful slopes where the land changed and rock formations that looked other-worldly, carved by the sands of time that blew in harsh winds. It was chilly out. The younger Winchester stopped wherever there was water, and he sank at the shorelines of ponds and brooks to cup his dirty hands and drink. He would splash his face too. This had to be a dream. Everything around him felt so surreal.

At one point, Sam had to sit and relieve his aching feet. He sat on a boulder, and spotted a small herd of elk joining him, just on the other side of the stream he was sitting at. It seemed like the family hadn't noticed him. The wild flowers that swayed around him were fascinating fuchsias and purples and yellows. He didn't know quite how long he sat there, but when he looked at his watch it was 1:32 in the afternoon. He regretted not having checked his watch when he first woke up. He wanted–unreasonably _badly_–to know just how long he had been walking. Not knowing only contributed to how unreal his situation felt. There was a terrible burning sensation in his back, and it soon drove him crazy, he jumped up and spooked the elk. They darted away. He pulled off his jacket and shirts, and precisely lay on his back so that only his back was submerged in the water. He knew better than to just dunk himself. He would get sick from that much exposure.

He had no idea what just happened to him. This had to be a bad acid trip. He impaled himself a few times, to try waking up. Whatever happened, however he got here, it seriously messed him up. Sam put his shirts and jacket back on, chills running over his bare skin as he did so.

The Winchester kept going. But the journey was not without hindrances.

At points, his ears rang so badly that he couldn't keep going.

At points the world swayed and tipped around him and he would fall over.

At points he couldn't even get back up because his bones felt rattled.

Or he couldn't breathe.

At points his insides felt like they were on fire.

And at points he felt like someone had knifed him in the back.

Twice.

Along his shoulder blades.

—

After another three hours of wandering, Sam lost it, laughing madly. At least a hundred yards out in front of him was a beautiful sight to behold. A split-rail fence. It looked like a stretch of toothpicks to him, but it was enough to let out a whoop of joy. At last, a sure sign of civilization. Nothing was sweeter then, seeing that split-rail fence.

He would have broke out into a run for it, but he was too tired, and sauntered forward instead, staggering and almost tripping on tangles of grass and weeds that clung to his jeans and boots. When he was fifty feet away, he at last saw a dirt road, just beyond the fence. Blessed be. He fell onto that split-rail fence, hugging it tightly. He hung there for a few moments, before deciding he was uncomfortable and his ribs hurt against the rails. He fixed himself on a section of that fence, sitting on of the lower rails, while clinging to the accompanying wood rail above. He just stayed there, content for now. In whispers, _"thank you"_ dribbled from his lips as his eyes closed and he could finally relax.

—

The sound of an automobile in the distance made him aware, but just barely. It sounded like a truck coming up the way. Sam didn't care. He wanted to be found. Closer and closer, the sound of gravel crunching to a throaty engine came. It was loud now, and he realized the vehicle was in front of him, idling. A door cracked open.

"Hey, Mister!"

Sam didn't look up.

Footsteps drew closer, and suddenly hands were shaking him.

"Hey!"

Sam's grip on the rail loosed, and he fell back, hitting the ground hard, legs flaring up awkwardly over the bottom rail. Fatigue had reached him. A startled man struggled to climb over the fence to help him.

"_God damn it-!_"

—

Sam was in a fog when he came to.

The first thing that he knew was that he was sitting, and his seat was hitting bumps. The sound of the throaty engine popped his eyes open. Sam's hands darted for the handle on his door and his seatbelt.

"HEY!" a voice shouted, and the vehicle ground to a stop. Sam struggled to open the passenger door and bail, but meaty calloused hands held onto him tight. Sam struck the man, purchasing another shout, and he threw his door open, tumbling out. He couldn't breathe after impact. His gasp was wheezed as he doubled over on the ground. He heard the driver's door slap shut and Sam scrambled off the road, crawling on all fours.

He was grabbed again, and Sam's pealed a sharp "NO!", fighting with everything that he had. The man was trying to reason with him, saying something about getting him to a hospital, but he wouldn't listen.

"SON!"

Sam stopped, breathing haggardly in the stranger's grasp on his shoulders. His eyes were squinted and he tried to clear the haze in his sight. He saw flannel, and a trucker's cap.

"..._Bobby?_" he concluded. A few breaths and lazy nods later, he amended hoarsely, "_You're an angel-_"

And he went limp again.

—

He was back in the truck. But this time he was bound.

"I'm sorry, son, but after that fit you had, I couldn't take that chance again."

Sam lolled his head to see the driver more clearly. It wasn't Bobby. He looked a little like him though. No, he didn't look like him at all. Sam couldn't decide which. There were enough similarities and differences to level the score on both sides of the house. Sam saw an ugly welt on the driver's face, below the eye. That wasn't there before. Must've been his doing.

"..._Sorry_," he mumbled in a post-slumber slur. The driver glanced over to him, but said nothing. Sam didn't fight the man this time. He wasn't an angel. But he realized that this guy must've thought his grapefruit was frappe'd.

"... What were you doing out there, son?" the driver finally asked. It took Sam a moment to answer. Truthfully, he had no idea. But he didn't want to wind up getting himself admitted to a psych ward so he inserted a feasible lie.

"..._Hiking._"

"Hikin'? What happened to your gear?"

"_Lost it... outrunning a buffalo._"

They had buffalo here, right?

"_Bison?_"

Cue impending heart attack.

"Son, don't you know it's dangerous to get _close_ to those things? All the brochures warn the tourists 'bout 'em."

"_My mistake._"

They were both quiet as the man made a right turn.

"_You're not- taking me to a hospital are you?_"

"Well I _was_," the man pointed, "But, that's not exactly my call, now is it?"

Sam was eyeing the purpling welt.

"...No," he agreed.

"Do you _need_ to go to the hospital?" the man asked.

"No," Sam repeated hastily. He had to find Dean. He couldn't afford to get tangled up at a hospital. He sat up straighter in his seat, only to huff in slight annoyance at the binds on his hands and feet. "Are these really necessary?" he asked bitingly.

"Are you gonna throw another mad fit and try and make a run for it?"

"No," the younger brother leaned his head back against the headrest, "I'm good."

The truck pulled over on the side of the road, and the driver got out. He went over to Sam's side and opened the door. He untied Sam's wrists first, and his ankles last. The tall brother rubbed his irritated skin. The driver got back behind the wheel and Sam closed his door. They rode off together.

"Now, if I'm haulin' a stranger in my truck, I don't want him holdin' a grudge the whole ride, so...I'm sorry," the man apologized at long last, "I was real worried about you back there, son. You were way off the reservation before."

"No, I'm sorry too," Sam assented, "You were right. I was completely out of it."

"Where're you from?" the driver asked.

"... Lebanon. Kansas."

"Well, Dorothy, hate to break it to you, but you ain't in Kansas anymore."

The driver let out a wheezey laugh, but Sam's face scrunched up. That joke didn't even fit the context of his response.

"I'm sorry- name's Rolland," he continued, keeping his eyes on the road as he nodded.

"Sam."

"Sam, huh? I knew a Sam. ... Knew a buncha Sam's."

Good to know.

"Did you come here with anyone, Sam? I should probably get you back to your folks."

"No- I came alone," Sam nodded.

"Oh."

"Do you have a phone?" Sam asked, turning slightly to Rolland.

"Uhhh, yes," the shaggy man dipped his stubby fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a flip-phone. Old school. Rad. Sam flicked it open and dialed Dean's number. Only to discover they were in a dead zone.

"No service." He flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Rolland. He saw the clock on the dashboard. 5:46pm. The sun was going to set very soon.

"Hey, Rolland, you live around here?"

"Huh?" the driver glanced over to him again, "Yeah I live just outside the park. Why?"

"Just curious."

It was only a matter of ten minutes before Sam saw a sign on the side of the road that read "You Are Now Leaving The Thunder Basin National Grassland. Thank You, Please Visit Again!" Sam was relieved. No thanks. He wasn't planning to revisit any time soon. He thought about the psychotic episode he had earlier today. It struck him as awfully strange. Sure, this whole day wasn't a fun day in the park (no pun intended), but he cracked. He actually _cracked_. He cracked too easily, if you asked him. Well, the worst of it was over now. Sam wanted to sleep, but he didn't want to be rude to Rolland, so he kept himself again.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"I gotta tell you- you seem to be a nice kid and all-"

Sam got it right away. He understood. End of the line. Rolland had already done his Samaritan good deed today.

"-You sure you're gonna be alright, son?"

Again, Rolland struck a chord with him. He really reminded him of Bobby.

"Oh yeah," Sam nodded, "Absolutely, I'll be fine. Thanks, Rolland."

Sam opened his door and got out. He patted himself down, which was vain considering he only had his wallet to his name, and nodded to Rolland.

"You be good, son," Rolland told him through the open window.

"Thanks for everything," Sam responded, and he stepped back. He watched Rolland's truck pull away and disappear into the evening.

—

Sam managed to hitchhike his way south, since he was still essentially in the middle of nowhere and he needed a place to sleep. The man that picked him up said he was only going as far as Douglas, and Sam said that was good enough for him. By another stroke of ill luck, the man didn't have a cell phone on him. Douglas wasn't the large city that imagined it might be. Rather, it looked like one of those large frontier towns, modernized. None of the buildings exceeded two stories. It bustled with life, though. Since he was almost broke, Sam had to work his way through the night, hustling pool and poker to collect enough cash to pay for a motel room, a beer, dinner, breakfast the next morning, _and_ possibly a bus ride home. He was glad that he had finally broke and let Dean teach him how it was done. He still wasn't a master hustler though; at least three times he had to work to recollect his winnings. At the end, he was exhausted. After shedding his layers down to his boxers and muscle shirt, he collapsed onto his bed and passed out. Nevermind a phone call to Dean.

—

At 2:34am, Sam awoke (and yes, he checked the clock this time). Nature called. He rolled over to get up. But he fell off the bed instead. Shock clenched him, and his chest felt tight. He couldn't breathe. Sam was wide awake now. Desperate hands grasped the edge of the bed, but he couldn't pull himself up. His chest cavity suddenly compacted, forcing a sound from him that would easily fall to misinterpretation by ears in neighboring rooms. His insides were burning. It felt the same as from that church the night the angels fell. But not only that, a slicing pain forced his back to arch up from the floor. It felt like knives were slicing between his shoulder blades. He couldn't breathe again. If he could, he would have been screaming.

Sam's body wrenched on the ground. Warmth was pooling in his regions. His bladder had let go. That was the least of his concerns at the time, however. He just wanted the pain to _stop_. The cords in his neck felt taut as he tried to seek salvation. His heart was pounding wildly in his ears. He was deaf to everything else. The room was spinning. This was it. He was going to die, he thought.

Sam didn't die, but he was aching when the episode was finished working him over. He slowly pulled himself up, and–oh _god, __disgusting_– he jumped up from the mess on the floor. He almost tipped from jumping up too fast. But in a flash he shed his last clothes and wiped up the floor. God. This was absolutely humiliating. For the first time since the sigil-banishment, Sam was _so glad_ that he was all alone. Even if Dean had been with him, Sam knew that Dean wouldn't ever make fun of him for it. He was having some kind of post-Trial _episode_. Plus, there was still that one time at the Mystery Spot where the Trickster set his brother up to get hit by a car. He had messed himself then. Dean wasn't in any position to call him out on it to begin with.

Sam hated having to use the motel towels. He had tried using bath tissue, but it was the really thin, cheap kind that dissolved rather than absorbed. He would be sure to be long gone by the time the cleaning lady or whoever came around to pick them up. Next he showered. He washed the dirt, grime, sweat, and urine from his body. By his luck, this motel provided small sample bottles of shampoo and soap. He used it all. Then he took care of his soiled clothes and the towels. Yuck. He wasn't sure what to do about those, so he ran the water in the bath tub, and scrubbed them down with the last of the body soap. He hung them to dry. He planned to make a stop at a laundromat later in the morning. This would have to do for now.

Sam was wrapped in a towel and while he was naked, he checked himself over, front and back. He didn't see any visible signs of injury, incredibly. Not even internal hemorrhaging, which he was pretty sure would have been a reasonable cause. He stared down at the anti-possession tattoo that was just below his collarbone. Sam sighed. He went to bed, still wrapped in the white towel. He was done.

—

Wearing pants without underwear was the most uncomfortable thing.

Sam had to fight every urge to yank at his in-seam. He headed for the laundromat down the way. The Winchester decided to risk smuggling out the hotel towels with him. He went to get change from the closest gas station, and he figured five dollars in quarters would be enough. While he was there, he grabbed a toasted Everything Bagel and a bottle of water. He threw everything into one machine, sat and waited. His watch told him that it was 11:56. He had slept a lot more than he meant to. Not that the extra rest would hurt, though, considering that his health was extremely questionable as of late.

Suddenly Sam had a ringing in his ears. The kind of ringing that wasn't really there but it tripped out your sense of hearing. He shook his head and rubbed at his ears, but it only got worse. His head was beginning to ache like a bugger, and he couldn't catch his breath. Oh no, not another one. Sam threw himself up from his chair, surprising a Hispanic woman, and he speed-walked out of the laundromat with his fingers pinching up his ears. He stumbled out onto the sidewalk, nearly bumping into a couple. He didn't apologize. He was feeling light-headed again. He hid himself into a space between the buildings, squatted against the wall, and tried to catch his breath again. The ringing was increasing its volume, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. His head was pulsing and he groaned, receding into a little ball. When Sam thought the ringing couldn't get any worse, it pierced at a sudden new high note, and the pain in his back was tearing again. He cried out, tipping over onto the cold ground in the shadows. He tried to hold his breath, rather than catch it. He held it until his vision darkened with the swirling static of colors. As if this would help.

"Hey!"

But it did.

The cramping in his chest, relaxed, letting his chest expand comfortably. The ringing in his ears faded away, along with the burns and tears. Thank God. Or whoever.

"Hey! You alright, buddy?!"

Footfalls closed in. Sam stirred slightly.

"_Yeah-_" he strained.

"You need 9-1-1 or something?" the man who carried the voice was kneeling next him now, trying to help him sit up. Sam leaned his back against the wall of the building.

"_N-No_, I'm alright." His attempt to be convincing wasn't very convincing.

"Man, you don't look so hot," the man told him, reaching for his pocket. Sam brightened.

"Hey, can I use your phone?"

"What?"

"Please, I need to make a call. It's important-"

"Uh, sure."

Sam took the phone from the man. It was there, in that dank alley, that Sam dialed his brother's number to evoke the riveting call. He nodded awkwardly to the man as he climbed his way up the wall to stand, and stepped away from him to acquire at least a little privacy for his conversation. He couldn't help feeling the man's eyes bore into his back though. The receiver clicked.

_"_Kevin? Kevin, are you alright?!"_

Kevin?

"Dean, it's me," Sam said.

_"_...Sam?!"_

"Yes!"

_"_Where the hell are you, Sam?!"_

_"_Douglas, Wyoming," Sam's thoughts were beginning to tumble right out of his mouth. "Dean, what the hell happened? I was in the Impala with you, and I got slammed by my own sigil and dropped in the middle of freakin' nowhere. And what happened to Kevin?!_"_

_"_Whoa, one question at a time! –Cas got the drop on Kev."_

Wait, did he hear that correctly-?

"What? Cas attacked Kevin?!"

_"_Look, long story short, the idiot went looking for you. He said he knew where you were. Kevin tried to stop him from leaving the bunker."_

"Well is he okay?!"

_"_I don't know, Sam! I was the job when it happened! I'm on my way back to the bunker right now."_

"Hold on. You were working the case?" Sam was flabbergasted. "Wh–Did you even try looking for me?!"

_"_What kinda stupid-ass question is that?! Of course I did! But how the friggin' hell was I supposed to know where to even begin looking?!"_

Sam was quiet. Dean did have a point... But what really troubled Sam was the fact that Dean had avoided the bigger issue here. Just how the hell did he get flung all the way from Missouri to Wyoming? He used an angel-banishing sigil. Which only on angels. So how come he was affected too?

The younger brother thought back. Come to think of it, his recovery was pretty hazy in his memory. Dean had stopped him from purifying Crowley. The pent-up energy in his body kicked the ever-living crap out of him. The angels were falling. He was dying.

...

_He was dying._

Sam's jaw tightened so hard he might have broken some teeth.

_"_Sam?"_

The younger brother picked up his head and slacked his jaw. "I'm here," he said calmly.

_"_—You doing okay?"_

"I guess," Sam paused. Did he really want to bring the subject to light? The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, standing there in the alley. There was a heat in his stomach that ached. His jaw quivered.

Yes, he really did.

"...If being stranded in the wilderness with a battered body and an angel inside me constitutes being okay. Then, by all means, I'm fabulous."

The was no response from Dean. Sam had the go-ahead with a follow-up.

"Dean, why didn't you tell me?"

_"_–Any more stupid questions you got up your sleeve, Sammy?"_

"Dean, I had a_ right to know!_" Sam exclaimed hotly.

_"_NO YOU DIDN'T!"_

He didn't just-

"IT'S MY DAMNED BODY AND IT'S MY DAMNED LIFE!" Sam exploded, "ARE YOU INSANE?!"

_"___**SAM!**__"_

The volume in his brother's voice made him flinch and almost drop the phone.

_"_I will __not have this conversation right now, do you hear me? __**Save it for the reunion.**__"_

Sam was speechless.

_"_... How long?"_

"...Not until you picked up the phone." Air whistled mutely from his nose, "...Since New York?"

_"_-Yeah."_

"And Cas is coming for me?"

_"_Yeah."_

"Guess I better sit tight then." Sam looked around.

_"_I'm gonna go check on Kevin first, then I'm shagging ass to Douglas to come get you."_

"Yeah."

_"_–Stay safe."_

Sam swallowed a knot.

"...Yeah, you too."

Sam clapped the phone shut.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unbelievable.

—

Sam was sitting back in the laundromat, leaning over his knees, hands folded up against his mouth.

_So, which one of you am I talking to?_

He didn't get an answer.

So once again, Dean had gone behind his back and double-crossed him. Typical. Why was he even surprised? It certainly wasn't the first time that his own brother screwed him over. Oh the _irony_. The first time Dean had pulled this crap was with a demon deal. This time it must've been an angel deal. But Sam couldn't piece together how exactly Dean managed to stuff an angel into his meat suit. Didn't angels need consent from the vessel they were about to possess? Or maybe that rule could be overridden is the vessel was unconscious. And it very well explained the episodes he had, and that trippy experience back in the Grassland. It was probably the angel responding to the sigil. It must've been in a hell of a lot of pain.

Whatever the case was, the fact remained that Sam had not expelled the angel. He couldn't. If it was up to him, he would have rejected the creature on the spot. But he couldn't do that.

He just couldn't.


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel managed to hitch ride, thanks to a sympathetic woman. A church-goer, no doubt by the crucifix hanging from her rearview mirror. Being in the same car with a woman of faith made Castiel feel slightly better. But not by much. In that car, the two of them discussed many things about religion. Although Castiel wasn't too keen on the topic as of late, he was willing to share his knowledge with the woman. At least they could relate somewhat.

"You know, one thing I never really understood in the Bible-" the woman told Castiel as he counted the wrinkles on her face, "-is, where do the dinosaurs come in? I mean, God created everything in Genesis, but then in chapter 6 of the _same book_, He suddenly decides to wipe the slate clean and start over. And dinosaurs _were_ real. You can't deny it, they're finding fossils everywhere!"

The angel knew the answer to that. Or he used to. If Naomi hadn't scrubbed his mind clean so many times, he certainly would have remembered those days. It was too bad. But then again, this mortal woman likely wouldn't have taken his word for it. He was now but a mortal man as well.

"—I don't remember," he began, staring out the windshield ahead of them, which drew a brief puzzled look from the woman, "-but I can guess. God made Man after everything else. Perhaps there was a– _gap_ of time between each verse of the Creation."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the "seven days" of Creation weren't literal _days_. They could have been years. Decades. Millennia, even. Because God is timeless, a millennium could be seen as a single day in His eyes."

"... That is true," the woman mused. Castiel said no more. He looked down at his hands, wondering just how old to the digit he really was.

"Hm," the woman quirked her head, "That'll be on my list of questions to ask God if I get to Heaven."

Castiel's brows knit.

"If?"

The angel was soon distracted by something out the window.

"Mrs. Diggory, I think you missed your exit-"

"Oh, it's quite alright, dear," she assured him. Castiel's frown didn't disappear, but he sat back in his seat, hugging his backpack and bundled angel blade close.

"Cas, dear, are you sure you don't want to put your things in the trunk?" Mrs. Diggory asked.

"I'm sure," he nodded. She giggled.

"You are so sweet. You actually remind me of my boy."

"Your son?"

"Yes~ He was a strapping lad," she nodded proudly.

"Oh."

Things between them were quiet for the first time the entire car ride. The silence felt awkward to the angel.

"...Mrs. Diggory, you're too kind," he started.

"Oh, nonsense!" she piped, "I'm always happy to help."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They two of them were quiet. They got off at the next exit, which pulled onto a rather lonely road. There were no gas stations or buildings to be seen. The angel observed this with apprehension. After a few minutes, Castiel's hand moved down, and carefully exposed the handle of the angel blade. His fingers curled around it.

Castiel yanked the blade out and slashed. Mrs. Diggory flinched with a cry, and her vehicle jerked to the left, veering into the oncoming lane. But before his blade met its mark, the angel lurched, and dropped his weapon. Mrs. Diggory maneuvered back into her own lane and watched Castiel struggle to breathe. Calmly, she reached for the console between them. Castiel watched helplessly as she clicked it open, and pulled out a hex bag. Curling a fist around the hex bag, Mrs. Diggory looked straight ahead, also calmly.

Her harmless features turned fierce.

"_Somnus iam , angelus!_" she hissed.

Everything went black.

—

Finally, the bunker was in view.

Dean tore the keys from the ignition as soon as he was parked, and he ran for the bunker. He banged on the heavy door with his fist.

"Kevin! Kevin, it's me, open up!"

He waited and listened.

"KEVIN!"

He yanked on the handle, and to his shock the door jarred open. He hurried inside. Dean scanned the main corridor quickly, from up high. He immediately spotted the young prophet, curled up on the floor near the control panels. The Winchester wasted no time in rushing to his side. He got on his knees.

"Kevin! Wake up!" he shook the young man vigorously. He checked for a pulse, applying two fingers to his carotid artery. His pulse was weak.

Dean hefted Kevin up and brought him to his room. He set him on the bed, cursing Castiel mentally. He carefully inspected Kevin for injuries, but the only ones he found were a cut on Kevin's right hand, and a nasty gash on the back of his head. Dean was beginning to panic. Wounds he could treat no problem, but he had to get Kevin's heart rate back up. He wasn't a doctor. He didn't know what to do. But at last he made a decision. He had to bring Kevin to the hospital. He couldn't help him, but doctors could.

Dean carried Kevin out to the Impala. He rested the unconscious prophet in the backseat, and buckled him in so that he wouldn't fall forward. He hopped into the front seat, and keyed the ignition. The Impala's tires screeched as he peeled from the bunker.

The whole way there, Dean glanced over his shoulder at Kevin.

"You're gonna be just fine, Kevin," he told his friend. Or he told himself, rather. "You're gonna walk away from this just fine. You're not gonna die, kiddo, not on my watch."

Even though the Winchester's words were meaningful and inspired, they did little to comfort himself.

Dean veered the Impala up to the doors of the Emergency Care Center. Even though it was illegal to park under the archway meant for ambulances, Dean Winchester didn't care. He threw his door open, jumped out and hollered, waving his arms wildly.

**_"HELP! I NEED HELP!"_**

EMT's came running from the building. Dean was pushed aside, but he didn't care. His eyes never left Kevin as he was carefully extracted from the car and placed on a stretcher. The clamor of the EMTs shouting stats and numbers that didn't compute in Dean's mind as they rushed him inside was hardly heard. He followed them inside, but then he stopped himself at the door before nurses got the chance to halt him. He swallowed thickly.

"Let me see him."

"Sir, he's unstable, you need to let the doctors stabilize him-"

"He's my BROTHER!" he roared in a flare of rare rage. The nurses didn't seem to want to tangle with Dean Winchester. Even if they could certainly argue otherwise.

—

The first thing that Castiel realized upon waking, was that he lying against a cold, flat surface and he couldn't move. He jerked his hand up, but it was snagged by some kind of binding. The angel tried his other hand, and both legs. He was stuck.

"_Hello, darling._"

He recognized the voice immediately enough.

Like a star making a grand entrance, lights flashed to reveal a large, but mostly empty room, and there in front of him was none other than-

"Crowley."

"It's been too long, _Castiel_," he said, snub as ever, even when he had sunk so low. Had this man no shame? A smile twitched up his lips. "How is my old business partner?"

Castiel was about to answer that, but he held back.

"No wait, let me guess. _Human,_" he sniveled at his own joke, but then his features softened as he began to pace slowly, balancing an angel blade between two fingers. Castiel's angel blade.

"What's the purpose of this?" Castiel looked around the room, tugging at the straps that held him. Crowley stopped moving for a moment, and shrugged his shoulders dumbly, circling eyes that glinted with mischief.

"Oh, nothing really, I just had a theory."

"_What theory_?"

Pearly whites peeked from behind those thin lips.

"You see, Castiel, I've been on this earth for years now. It really is a much better place than Hell, I have to say, but then again that much was obvious from the get-go-"

"Cut to the chase," the angel demanded. He had heard Dean use that expression a lot, and he had to admit that he was at least proud of himself for finding the proper time and place to use it. Crowley played a coy smile.

"My, my~ Even when I'm topping, you're still insist on taking charge. Sorry, Love, we're playing by _my rules_ _tonight_."

Crowley's sexual innuendoes never seemed to slip away from him in his finer moments of glory. But what was the point of this? Kidnaping Castiel? A door off-center behind him creaked open, and Crowley turned from the angel. Castiel was not surprised to see Mrs. Diggory enter the room, a smug little smile on her face.

"Ah. Hello, Mother~"

_This_ surprised him.

"Mrs. Diggory is your mother?"

The look Crowley flashed at him clearly needed no words. But the (ex-?) King of Hell accented his expression anyway.

"_Boy, ever since you angels fell, you've really lost your touch, haven't you?_" he almost muttered, "No. Mrs. Diggory here is the _un_willing vessel. Castiel, _this_ is my mother-" Mrs. Diggory stepped forward and blinked her eyes to coal black, "-Evanna McCleod."

It wasn't until Mrs. Diggory (or _Evanna_, rather) flashed her true eyes at the angel that he could see her true face. It was yet another limitation from the Fall. If Castiel could have seen her true face from the start, he would have never stepped into her car.

"_You _passed my little test, Castiel," Crowley pointed the blade to the strapped angel. "Your vision is impaired. You can't really _see_ us anymore, can you?"

"How did you know where to find me?" Castiel asked, diverting from the subject.

"_That_ was a stroke of pure luck, love," Crowley began to pace again, "I actually wasn't planning to catch _you_. Any angel would have done just fine. But _you_ are a bonus."

Castiel was not flattered.

"—In any case," the demon King continued, "you angels have _handicaps_ now, but you aren't _completely powerless_. You're human, but you're also _not_. It really does raise a question from Yours Truly." The demon closed the gap between himself and the angel. He peered down on him condescendingly, and Castiel shied his face from the demon's as much as he could.

"_What happens if I do __**this?**_"

Crowley flicked up a hand and snapped his fingers.

Mrs. Diggory screeched at his command, ejecting Evanna in a thick howling vine of black smoke. Evanna's smoke poised in the air like a snake, and Castiel went rigid. The snake struck.

Castiel choked and gasped, Evanna invading him though his airways like a deadly toxin. He couldn't breathe, and his eyes watered as his vision was becoming overshadowed. His sight was failing him, and he writhed on the flatbed against the sinful intrusion. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. He couldn't feel. All he could do was think. The angel was trapped.

Evanna was maneuvering him now.

Castiel's fingers flexed, and his now-black eyes blinked stupidly, his head craning in all directions.

"_Fergus!_"

His voice sounded much higher.

"_Fergus, child, let me down now, I've done it! I've seized the angel!_"

Crowley stood still and waited, observing quietly.

"_Fergus, what are you waiting for? It was a success!... FERGUS!_"

No.

Evanna jolted suddenly, alerting Crowley. Castiel's face contorted, as if to express pain. Little sounds puffed from his throat. Crowley's eyes narrowed. Evanna was stammering to speak.

"_F-Fer-gus-" _her voice broke off into loud sobs. Her voice escalated, "_Help-! ME!_"

Instantly, she was thrashing wildly on the flatbed, howling through Castiel's voice. Crowley had never heard Castiel scream before, so this was a shocker. He backed away quickly, eyes wide. Castiel's eyes rigidly receded from Evanna's black.

"_I'll be damned,_" he breathed.

Evanna shrieked and with Castiel's voice, fire was expelled from the angel's mouth in an explosion of blue tongues of flame. Crowley sprang back, shielding his face. Evanna's own scream mingled with Castiel's in a horrifying cacophony of echoing sound. The discord shattered windows and all of the lightbulbs in the room, showing the darkness with quick sparks. The only light in the room to see with now was the flames of his torching mother.

The last of the hot flames wafted into nothingness, and Castiel's voice was his own. He moaned loudly as his arched back flattened against the bed. He was panting and gasping and blinking feverishly. He couldn't see. For a minute he feared blindness, but then he realized that he only accidently smote the lights.

Crowley himself was blinking in disbelief. He shook his head quickly, blinked again and parted his lips as his expression settled to matter-of-fact self-collection.

"Well-... I wasn't expecting _that_ to backfire."

And in that moment, only Castiel's breath was heard in the dark.

Crowley remained still, squinting vainly, stupefied by his own pun.

* * *

**Note: "Somnus iam, Angelus!", translates to the command, "Sleep now, angel!"**

**Thank you for reading.**


	14. Chapter 14

Kevin woke up feeling immediately like crap.

Bright.

Everything was too bright. It hurt his eyes.

"Kevin- hey-"

A hand clasped his shoulder, trying to keep him from adjusting to get comfortable in the bed. Reflexively, Kevin slurred a "_Screw you_," at Dean. The Winchester didn't mind the insult at all. He was pretty doped up on medication.

"The doc said you lost a lot of blood. Kevin, what the hell happened?"

Kevin squinted, and when he looked down, he saw that one of the needles plunged into his wrist was indeed transfusing blood. Oh, that gave him the willies.

"..._That ass jumped me,_" Kevin exhaled slowly, despite the bite in his tone. Kevin vaguely remembered his hand, and he looked down at his limp hand to see that it was freshly bandaged. He couldn't feel it yet, but he was pretty sure that he had been given new stitches too. The beep of the heart monitor beside his bed nicked the seconds that passed before he continued.

"..._That's it._ _He jumped me._"

Dean looked on, befuddlement sinking into his facial expression.

"..._But you knew that already. So why ask?_"

"Hey, take it easy-" Dean pushed Kevin back when he tried to sit up again, but Kevin shoved his hands away.

"_NO!_"

Dean was on his toes, looking to the door. He hoped that no one had heard him. The monitor was beeping a little faster, and Kevin's breaths hitched and he leaned forward with a slouch in his shoulders.

"—Okay," he caved, and slowly sat back down in his chair. Kevin eyed him. Dean eyed him back. After a moment, Dean leaned forward, folding his hands. "Kevin, I'm not mad at you."

"It's _my fault_," the prophet's shoulders tensed, but then dropped again, and it looked like he was about to break down crying.

"It's not your fault," Dean told him firmly. That didn't really seem to helping Kevin's fragile state, so the Winchester scooted his chair closer to the bedside. "...Alright, tell you what." Dean pulled out a slip of paper out of his pocket and a pen. He wheeled a tabletop–meant for meals in bed–close to him and he hunched over it, writing on the slip.

"If you _really_ wanna make it up to me-" he started, focusing on the paper as his pen scrawled over it, "-I want you to do me a favor."

Kevin sniffed.

"_What?_"

Dean finished writing, folded the slip, and handed it to Kevin.

"I want you to only worry about what is on that paper."

With a pat to the back, the older brother got up, smiled briefly, and left. He had to get the money wired for Kevin's hospital bill. Kevin watched him leave, and only after he was out of sight did he unfold the paper. It was a list of instructions. There was only one line.

_Get better._

—

Dean was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He didn't want to just abandon Kevin like this in the hospital, but he had to go find Sam and bring him home. And Cas. Glory, hallelujah, this was going to be a hell of a family reunion. He was _not_ looking forward to getting this party started. But if "family" was all peaches and thornless roses, then he had another thing coming. Dean reckoned that his family rose bush had more thorns than roses.

Dean shut his eyes for just a minute to escape from the world, but even in the shadows of his eyelids, he saw the world too vividly. He was sure that Sam hated him. And rightfully too. He shouldn't have kept something so critical from his brother, but Dean was a desperate man. That side of him didn't always show, but when it did, desperation never looked so tragically stoic and, frankly, beautiful. He couldn't live without Sam.

And Cas... Dean would've been an idiot to deny that their friendship had been stretched thin for a while now. How did that happen? _Why_ did that happen, more importantly? He knew why, and it made his head shake in shame. It was so stupid. He should have just let it go.

_"You gotta get your head out of the clouds, Cas! You can't hit the target just by __willing__ the bullet to punch the bullseye via the Grace of God. You're not an angel anymore, Cas! You're human! You need to concentrate and aim!"_

_Click!_

Dean's eyes were wide. He was staring at two things.

A beige hospital wall.

And the black eye of a gun.

* * *

_**Busy day today, but hooray for 9x03! Let's ring in the new episode with gusto!**_


	15. Chapter 15

Dean couldn't even blink. It felt like blinking would have signaled swift and sure death. He was drinking in as much as he could with his eyes, so he didn't dare blink. The only thing his eyes drank in was the black eye that was staring him down. His sight was so affixed that for a few moments he didn't even see just who was pointing the weapon. But this situation was familiar enough already. He didn't need to look up to see. Dean knew his own gun well, especially when it was being shoved in his face. He had to admit, Cas looked good holding a Smith & Wesson.

_"Cas, put it down."_

The angel stared straight-on at him, his face twisting with a conflict of emotions at the firm, grated pitch of Dean's command. He was stuck. Dean saw his finger rubbing the trigger. He had to act quickly.

"... So it's come to this, huh?"

Dean chuckled bitterly through his disbelief, _"We've been down this road before, Cas. Enough is enough."_

It was true. This wasn't the first time that Cas had turned and betrayed Dean.

_"Cas. Even after all of the crap we've been through together, do you still believe we aren't family?"_ Dean swallowed, trying to keep his voice level, _"Look man, I told you before, and I'll say it again in case it didn't get through your grapefruit the first time. We __**are family.**__ We are __**brothers.**__"_

Dean had seen a crapload of disturbing things throughout his life, but when he saw Castiel's tears slid down his cheeks through an expression that borderlined absolute loathing, he realized that nothing was more dangerous than an unstable angel twisted up by humanity.

_"Why?"_

That was always the question, wasn't it?

_"Because of what I said before?"_ Dean asked incredibly, _"C'mon, man, nobody's making you do this– not this time. Talk to me."_

Castiel did not talk to him.

He gave up.

_"Alright, now you're just insulting me. Are you gonna put the gun down, or shoot?"_

Castiel stared at him for what felt like years, from behind the quivering gun.

Dean was fully aware of one thing: he could have _easily_ wrestled the gun away from Cas. He had managed to save his own life by taking other gunman by surprise at close ranges. But he couldn't. He couldn't take a swing at Cas. Even when his own "brother" was on the verge of shooting him dead where he stood, he lost all will to retaliate. If Cas wanted him dead, then that was okay with him. As far as he was concerned at that moment, his life was out of his own hands. This was Cas. He was always an exception to every rule. He was family. Dean could not fight back against family. Not physically, not in situations like these. This whole thing was a lot more painful than he was letting on to his angel friend. But that was Dean Winchester, always looking to mask his weakness whenever he could.

Cas lowered his gun.

Dean could finally blink.

The beige hospital wall was a comfort, and the Winchester was suddenly aware that he had risen from his chair and was on his feet. He rubbed his face down, exhaling, and he returned to Kevin's room with quickness in his step.

—

The second that Dean re-entered the room, Kevin flicked the sheet of paper at him.

"_That_ was lame," Kevin told him, but not without a hint of humor in his voice. Dean looked clearly offended.

"Well it helped _your_ pissy attitude," he said defensively.

"Yeah~" Kevin had to give him due credit with a hearty grin, even though writing a sappy note like that and handing it off like a middle school girl confessing to her crush really _was lame_. Dean sank back into his chair.

"Hey, listen, Kev," Dean scratched the back of his head, "—I can't stick around."

Kevin's smile wilted, and the gravity of their situation was weighing back on his shoulders. He nodded.

"Yeah, I get it," the corner of his lip twitched aside, fighting to keep that smile up. "Gotta go find Sam."

"And Cas."

"...Yeah. And Cas," Kevin echoed vehemently. He could feel the Winchester's eyes on him as he poked at his hand bandaging, and he knew what he must've been thinking. Dean stood up again after a minute.

"You'll be able to handle yourself, right?"

"Yeah."

In truth, Kevin didn't want Dean to leave him. He hadn't exactly been to Hell and back in the literal sense, but past experiences had brought out the worst in him when he was all alone. Dean came closer to him, and pat his back.

"Promise me you'll take it easy, got it?"

"I will."

As if he just remembered something important, Dean jerked suddenly, and pulled at his pockets. "Crap, I almost left you without directions to the bunker." The pen came out, and Kevin was grateful that he remembered. But even if the Winchester had forgotten to ask, the prophet wasn't exactly helpless. He had managed to survive completely on his own without the Winchester brothers for an entire year. Dean grabbed the sheet of paper that Kevin flicked at him, and he tried to write directions to the best of his memory.

"Uh... okay, here." Dean handed him the paper back. He hated to admit that his directions weren't the clearest. He had been panicked on his way to the hospital, so of course he didn't remember every single turn he made and the name of every street that he took. Kevin looked over the directions, and his dark eyed shifted, glancing up.

"You think you'll be able to find your way back?"

"I'll manage," Kevin assured him, even though he himself was unsure. He didn't have much of a choice though. The clock was ticking for Sam. Possibly for Castiel too. He wasn't going to keep them waiting, and make Dean hold his hand. He wasn't a kid anymore.

"Alright, kiddo," Dean nodded, hand capping Kevin's shoulder. Kevin managed a smile at Dean, and with a nod, the Winchester took off. Kevin looked over the directions again. He rubbed his eyes. It was probably the medications making him tired, even though he was impatient to return to the Men of Letters' safe haven. He was feeling drowsy again, and before closing his eyes, he reread Dean's instruction: _Get better_.

...Maybe it wasn't so lame after all.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam hated having to sit tight in Douglas. He probably could have been halfway back to the bunker by now. But he couldn't move anywhere, both because of Castiel, and because he was still trying to get a handle on these sporadic fits of his. Castiel was looking for him, and it wouldn't be good if Sam was to disappear on him before he arrived in Douglas. If he even made it to Douglas. Sam shook the pessimistic thought from his head. No, Castiel would be just fine. He had managed being on his own before. He just hoped that whatever forsaken angel was inside him would curb its running streak. He couldn't be behind the wheel if he was going to keep having wild "seizures", and he couldn't take public transit either, lest he double over on the floor with witnesses present. No. He had to avoid getting checked into a hospital at all costs.

He was still mightily impressed that Dean had managed to keep it a secret for this long. And pissed. Undoubtedly pissed. Sam had plenty of time to brood in his motel room. But on the bright side, he had managed to go almost five hours without another episode. It was 4:21pm. To pass the time, Sam had mostly just kicked back and watched TV. He was lucky to catch a rerun of Star Trek: Enterprise. Scott Bakula was a childhood favorite of Sam's, so it was great to see him on TV again. He wondered what he was up to these days. Was he still even alive?

Mostly, Sam was stuck watching Star Wars. There was a marathon on, and it had been a while since the Winchester had bonded with America's favorite Jedi. He remembered Dean's analogy, comparing the hunters and Men of Letters to the Jedi and Jedi Masters when he spoke with their time-traveled grandfather. It was a clever comparison.

But Sam was contracting cabin fever after almost five hours. And again, he'd successfully cleared almost five hours without another episode. Could he chance it and head out? He could certainly go for a drink. Maybe some gamble-free rounds of pool. Sam Winchester was not an antisocial creature.

He had long since folded up his borrowed towels and it felt great to be wearing his underwear again. But he would cringe for a long time when recollecting this experience. He just wanted to get back to the bunker and get his life back on track. Sam decided to pop some aspirin he picked up at the drugstore and he headed out. He moseyed back to the bar.

Sam didn't have any sort of grand entrance, but he really liked this bar because it had the classic swing-doors that all saloons had in the Wild West. Their appearance was cheapened by the glass doors sitting behind them, though. But he could imagine that during the summer they kept the glass doors open so that anyone could get a chance to feel like the new sheriff in town. Sam pushed his way through the glass doors, and sat at the bar.

He ordered a half-pint and sipped away from it slowly. It wouldn't do to get drunk, so he took his time working his way to the bottom. The Winchester just hoped that he wouldn't regret this.

"Hey."

Sam looked up. He saw a man leaning over the bar counter beside him.

"Sorry, I don't swing that way," he responded to the suggestive smile, and he returned to his beer.

"Oh. Sorry."

Sam fidgeted a little in his seat. The man wasn't budging.

"Uh," Sam began again, "No offense, but you're... kinda making me uncomfortable."

"Sorry," the man apologized again, "I'm not trying to pick you up–" The younger Winchester wasn't sure he believed him, "–I was just looking for a good conversation."

Sam was willing to bite.

"Have a seat," he invited, and he saw a glimmer of hope in the man's blue-or-gray eyes. He smiled and joined him at the counter. "...It's nice seeing that you're open," Sam commented almost off-handedly. The man seemed pleased by the compliment and he shrugged.

"Yeah, well, I only got one life, so I'm not gonna try to hide it."

"I'm rooting for you." Sam sipped from his glass. The man's smile was deep and impish.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

The man asked for a martini, and the barmaid gave it to him. Sam saw the subtle wink she flicked at his conversational partner.

"You know her?" Sam asked matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, that's Gris. She's always real nice to me." That smile never seemed to completely disappear from his face. It only morphed. Sam wondered if his cheeks ever hurt from smiling so much.

"Gris? Is that a nickname?"

"Griselda," the man answered, "She doesn't like her name though." He leaned in closer to the tall brother. "_I don't blame her_," he whispered sharply through the noise in the bar. Sam got goose bumps. But he could see why. Griselda was something out of a fairytale. No mom in their right mind named her daughter Griselda. Griselda was so 17th century.

Come to think of it, Griselda didn't look too bad. She had platinum blond hair (probably dyed, he guessed) and an even sweep of fringe curtaining her forehead. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and it swing with ever turn of her head. Griselda definitely wasn't one of the more beautiful women he had ever seen, but he had to give her props: he didn't usually dig blondes. Not since Jess. (Did Ruby count though? ...Technically, he screwed Ruby 2.0, and she wasn't blond.)

Sam shook his head. He didn't want to even think about Ruby.

"I'm Gary, by the way," the man extended a hand, "And since you don't know Gris, I take it you're a visitor."

"Sam," the Winchester acknowledged, "Yeah, you're right on the money." They shook.

"Where're you from, Sam?" Gary's lips puckered at the rim of his glass.

"Kansas."

"Wow. Did you come to see the Grassland?"

"Yeah."

"That place is really something," Gary swished his drink around in a gently motion of his wrist, "I've been up there a few times. It's amazing."

"It sure is." Sam didn't want to think about the Grassland either. "-Can you fill me up?" he told Gris as she passed by.

"Sure," she took his glass and took care of him. So much for watching how much he drank today.

"Did you come here alone, Sam?"

That earned Gary a look.

"–I mean, like, no family or friends?" he spoke a bit defensively in good nature. Sam felt bad for having misinterpreted the question.

"Yeah- no, I came alone."

"Well, that's cool," Gary offered, looking at the racks of shot glasses before them, "Flying solo's the way to go. You can take your time to see everything and you don't have to worry about anyone rushing you along or holding you back."

Sam had the slight suspicion that Gary wasn't still referring to vacationing. Gary's smile looked sad when he glanced over again.

"... Did you break up with someone, Gary?" Sam asked. He might as well. Gary's smile disappeared for the first time.

"—Nah," he dismissed. Again, Sam didn't believe him. His suspicion was confirmed as Gary went on. "... Yeah. It wasn't pretty."

"Break-ups hardly are," Sam assented, "... You wanna tell me about it?"

"Nah, it's okay," Gary insisted, "You don't wanna hear my story."

Sam was ashamed to agree.

"-What about you?" Gary perked up, "You got yourself someone?"

"... I used to." The Winchester was feeling a weird tingle in his spine. At first he thought he might have induced another impending episode. He was ready to pay his tab and bail. But then he realized that even nine years later, he still had trouble talking about his deceased girlfriend. He settled back onto his stool.

"Welcome to the club then," Gary raised his nearly empty glass. Sam smiled in grim humor and raised his glass too.

—

Sam found it hard to say goodbye to Gary and Gris, even if it was only for the night. The three of them wound up striking it off together better than he had expected (though the alcohol may have played a part). As it turned out, Gris was bisexual. Gary was practically her best friend. "In these parts, you just gotta stick together," Gris had told him, "You don't pick and choose family, not when they're in the same boat as you." Sam learned that Gris had a girlfriend and wanted to marry her. She couldn't wait to "say adios to this wasteland". She wanted to get married. The State of Wyoming did not permit it. Gary told Sam that he might move with Gris or he might not. He really would like to settle down in California. "Anyplace that'll let me get married is good enough for me," Gris said. Sam wished them luck.

Sam flicked open his new phone. He was going to have to get used to this flip-phone. He clumsily navigated for his surviving Contacts. His thumb hovered over Dean's number. He wasn't sure if he wanted to contact Dean yet. But then he scolded himself for acting like a dramatic teenage girl and he pressed "OK". Dean picked up on the first ring.

"__Hello?_"

"Dean, it's me," Sam spoke, "Just wanted to give you my new number."

"__You ditched your number?_"

"Yeah, I figured it wouldn't hurt," Sam studied the lampshade.

"__Probably should change mine too. Note to Self._"

"How far are you from Douglas?"

"__I'm headed north on Route 281. I just passed Hastings, Nebrask_a."

"Hastings?" Sam perched, remembering the city too well, "...Good times."

Indeed. Hastings was where the angel Samandriel was tortured by Crowley, and later killed by Castiel.

"__Yeah. Then I'm gonna swing west on Interstate 80. Sam, there's no way I'll get there tonight. You're gonna have to hang on another day or so_."

"Of course. —Hey, is Kevin alright?"

"_..._He should pull through just fine_."

Sam wasn't sure what exactly to make of Dean's words, but he didn't press. Neither of the boys addressed Sam's current condition.

"Did you call Cas?"

"__Yeah, the son of a bitch won't answer_."

"What about tracking him?"

"_..._I__'m not done kicking myself for taking the chip out of his phone._"

Sam held back a biting remark. Nice going, Dean.

"Hey, gimme Cas's number."

"__He's not gonna answer, Sam, I'm telling you_."

"Well maybe he's not answering because he knows it's _you_."

The line went quiet. Sam knew his big brother well enough. Dean was probably slack-jawed at the turn that their conversation just took. He was probably searching for the words, trying to grasp them out of the air with his eyes.

"__Fine,_" Dean said at last.

—

Sam had been right. Dean was thrown back by his brother's daring retort. He just couldn't escape drama, could he? The two brothers barely said their proper goodbyes. Hastings was long put behind Dean. When passing the city, Dean offered shallow condolences. Rest in peace, Alfie/Samandriel, wherever you are now.

Dean yawned and looked at the clock. 8:00pm. Ah, hell. He figured he'd quit for the night after another hour or two of driving. So he cruised with the radio blaring. If he was gonna be driving late, he'd at least try to make it enjoyable. But when the Impala was out of range, Dean switched to his cassettes. He couldn't be bothered to search the frequencies for another rock n' roll station. He had to call it a night at Lexington. Dean didn't even bother to book a room. He just parked the Impala on a side road not too far from the exit. He also didn't want to bothered with the hassle of checking in/checking out, and he didn't want to spend the money. However, he groaned aloud when he realized that his tank was almost empty. He just wanted to sleep, but he keyed his Baby and drove her to the nearest gas station.

While he filled up his car, Dean figured he should grab some food. Come to think of it, he was pretty hungry. The older Winchester had hardly noticed, but he'd gone almost the whole day without a meal. With stress gunning him down, food hadn't been of grave importance. He helped himself to the front counter.

"Can I help you?" the Middle-Eastern clerk asked with a distinct accent.

"Uh, yeah, I'll take a turkey sub please."

"Will that be all"

"Y–hold on," Dean suddenly too off, and he picked up and down the aisles. Might as well buy tomorrow's breakfast too. He grabbed a Coke from the fridges with finality and brought everything to the counter. The way the clerk was looking at him told Dean that he shouldn't be working the night shift. He piled everything and dug up the cash while the man rung up the goods.

"Have a good night."

Dean was about to walk out, but the clerk forgot one thing.

"Oh, uh, my sandwich."

Before he could grasp what was happening, the clerk lunged over the counter, and grabbed him. Dean struggled against the man's grasp as he was being pulled over the counter, and that's when he saw: the man's eyes were coal black. The Winchester grunted loudly when the demon's surprising strength hauled his weight over the counter top and slammed him up against the racks of cigarette packs.

"_Abaddon wants to see you_," the man leered calmly. Dean's cheeks puffed as air hissed through grit teeth.

"_I should've guessed_."

Dean's smart mouth earned him a hard shove.

"_She misses you, you know_."

"Yeah, I'll bet," the Winchester huffed, "Well, if she wants to see me so bad, why didn't she come here herself?"

Even when in the throes of Fate, Dean still couldn't help being a smart aleck.

"_The Queen's schedule is inflexible_." Dean had to fight a gag. The demon's breath smelled.

"_Queen?_" he echoed in surprise.

"_Oh, haven't you heard?_" the demon teased, "_There's a new sheriff in town._"

"What about Crowley?" Dean strained. The demon was beginning to suffocate him.

"_He's dead_."

"You sure about that?" he forced a smirk, "_I'd beg to differ._"

The demon hurled Dean, sending him tumbling back over the counter. The hunter crashed into a stack of carousel racks, knocking them all down like bowling pins. Bagged chips, jerky, candy, and other trinkets fell and scattered everywhere.

Dean struggled to get back up, and the demon-clerk was already upon him again. He fought back with ease this time. Ruby's knife came slashing from inside his coat, and he thrust it into the enemy. He pushed the demon back against the counter, sinking it in as far as it could go. The demon choked, light crackling beneath its vessel's skin. Soon it was limp. The demon was dead.

Dean wasted no time. He worked quickly to disarm the security cameras and destroy the tapes. He swiftly wiped down any place that could have his prints, and he bailed.

Only to find himself greeted outside by a troop of four more demons.

Three men, one woman. They didn't even try to hide their true eyes. They were mocking him. He was easily out numbered. The moment was still, and Dean sighed._ Come on._

Well, it was now or never.

He flipped the knife in his grasp and braced himself to fight.


	17. Chapter 17

Sam tried Cas's number. He didn't answer. The younger Winchester sighed, and tossed his new phone on the bed. Damn it, Cas. Well, there was nothing more that he could do, he decided. Might as well hit the hay.

Still not having a change of clothes, he simply dug underneath the blankets and cocooned himself. But when he tried to sleep, he couldn't. He felt restless. The man twisted and turned every which way to get comfortable, but he couldn't relax. He forced himself on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He wondered if maybe this was another side effect of the damaged angel inside him. If it was, then he wasn't even gonna complain. He felt like he was being let off easy this time. Sam folded his hands across his chest and swallowed. He decided to try to communicate with the angel again.

"Uh– Can you- hear me?" he asked "himself". He immediately felt ridiculous for posing the question, but he decided to keep going. It couldn't hurt, could it?

"... Are you doing better?... Uh, sorry about the whole— sigil-thing." He found himself chuckling lightly, "If it makes you feel better, it slugged the crap out of me too."

Sam didn't get any response.

"... Could you tell me who you are, at least?"

All the more reason to feel absurd.

Sam gave up and rolled over onto his side. He nestled into his blankets and closed his eyes.

But they shot open again in a flash of piercing luminous blue.

—

Dean gave it all he had.

He didn't know who to strike first, so he took the two men on the left. He shanked one of them and he was quickly down for the count, but Dean couldn't bask in this victory because he was suddenly being thrown. He landed hard on the pavement twenty feet away, and the woman was straddling him, tearing at his clothes with her nails. He swung his arm, but only managed to cut her cheek. He shoved her off, only to get hung up by a burly black man. His arms were locked, and the last man was punching his face at such quick intervals that Dean couldn't keep up with what was happening. He held onto Ruby's knife with a tight fist.

The tall male demon holding him fast suddenly screamed and let Dean go. He staggered away as the creature was holding his static-ing stomach. The third man followed suit, and the woman was helping him. His face stung and wailed in pain, but he ignored it. He now could see that the third man looked pretty shabby. A plaid scarf, a dirty jacket and a tweed cap. Probably a hobo. The woman must have been a biker. She was in a sleek leather catsuit. Her helmet and bike were missing though. As if it mattered—

Dean took a stab at the woman first, but he rebounded quickly when the tall black demon was slinking forward to rejoin the fight. Dean had to act fast. He saw the Impala to the left, just behind the trio. If he could just make it to the car– but he already knew he couldn't. They were too close on his tail.

He fled.

The Winchester had to put some distance between him and them. He cursed himself for not waiting until the morning to fill up his tank. He couldn't run too far from the gas station.

The woman was the fastest runner, followed by the hobo and the black demon. She sprang forward and managed to tackle Dean from behind as he was winding he way around a neighboring bank. The knife clattered on the asphalt, and Dean's hands were at her throat, trying to keep her (admittedly) sexy face away from his. The woman hissed and snarled, tearing away at his jacket, and Dean yelled when her nails tore right through his shirt. His arm flailed out, hand slapping the pavement as his fingers grazed the hilt of the knife just barely out of reach. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. The woman lurched, and she began to scream. He grabbed the knife. Just as her vessel was ejecting the demon, Dean's arm swung back around and sank the blade through her shoulder, roping hit through the heart. The demon jolted. He tore the knife out and threw her off, not waiting to see her die. The hobo demon was upon him, but he wound him running himself right into Ruby's knife. Dean cast his body aside with hers.

The hunter was on edge. The black demon didn't show face.

Dean hissed, wincing as he inspected his shirt. He quickly saw a huge problem.

That bitch.

The woman's nails had torn through his shirt, right through the anti-possession tattoo on his collar.

Dean beelined for the Impala, keeping the knife ready. He saw his Baby sitting there, still hooked to the pump, gassed up and ready to go.

But of course.

There was the last demon, standing there, waiting for him.

The first thing that Dean did was conceal the faulted tattoo. His eyes briefly wandered to the first demon he had iced, whose corpse was still lain out on the cement, beneath the gas pumps' canopy. He said a silent prayer, that the demon couldn't sense his vulnerability.

The demon didn't move, it only stared at him. It was challenging him to step forward. He seemed to know that the Impala was precious to Dean Winchester. He was holding Baby hostage. That bastard.

Dean had to weigh his options. If the demon could sense his vulnerability, then he hardly stood a chance. If not, then he could put the scumbag down without too much hassle.

But Dean knew when to tuck tail and run. Before he could charge at the demon, the vessel was suddenly screaming and releasing its inner demon.

And run he did.


	18. Chapter 18

Dean was as good as screwed, and he knew it the second the demon's vessel began to scream. Yes, he fled.

He scrambled to get away, but the demon's smoke was much faster. He looked around frantically as he sprinted back to the bank. He didn't even spare a split-second glance at the two other demons he had ganked, whose bodies were lying in the drive-thru. He spotted the front door, and got an idea. He acted on it so quickly that he didn't even consider that fact that he could possibly _die_.

Dean skidded to his knees, which tore his jeans and scraped the skin there, but he didn't even feel it. Thank God. God bless whoever was responsible for this. Dean's fingers tore at the plastic bag that had been left there. Rock salt. He didn't think twice about cramming handfuls into his mouth and forcing it up his nose. It burned his nasal cavities so much that his eyes watered. He squeezed his eyes shut and doubling over on the sidewalk, emptying the bag quickly over his face. The smoke was soon upon him, and he could feel it washing over him. The demon's smoke felt unpleasantly cold, in addition to the cool temperatures provided could felt the smoke crawling over his body and he tensed at the touch on his exposed skin. Dean was biting back howls. The salt had been poured over the open cuts on his face as well as the gash parting his anti possession tattoo. He couldn't breathe, his airways burned, and he was beginning to gag-swallow flakes of the sodium crystals. He couldn't exactly say it was Hell. This was a nightmare. He writhed to channel a response to his pain.

The smoke continued to ghost over Dean, and the hunter was beginning to reach his limit. He could sense the demon was trying to penetrate the barrier that he created, but seeing that he hadn't been overwhelmed yet... meant that it was working.

It seemed like an agonizing eternity before the smoke receded and vanished altogether.

Dean jolted upright, hacking up salt as if he could never rid it completely from his system, he tore at his nose, trying to flush the flecks out, and he gagged horridly to point of his stomach churning to expel the foreign material from him. Every inhale scorched his lungs because he was mistakenly inhaling particles that weren't very welcome there. He retched over onto the black top, in his body's state of panic, and his face and collar were blazing hot with an unforgiving sting in the blood. Dean didn't even try to mute his voice. He owed himself that much. He was in agony.

Dean couldn't get up for almost ten minutes. He just lay there on the sidewalk, coughing, wheezing, and burning. The smell of his vomit was beginning to sour the cool night air, and his stomach was becoming upset again. He forced himself to get up. He needed water. He staggered back to the gas station. When he thought about it, he was so lucky that it was late. Nobody was out at this time. Dean ripped the convenience store door open, and he stepped awkwardly over the dead clerk. He raided the fridges for bottled water.

Dean drank recklessly. He washed himself clean, rubbed the salt from his hair, and even tried to soothe his nasal cavities with water. It wasn't pleasant, but it definitely felt better than salt. He just couldn't help the burn in his lungs. Hopefully that would go away on its own. It would suck if he wound up getting himself hospitalized, but he was sure that he would live. Well, so much for getting to sleep. Dean sipped from a bottle quietly, and bandaged himself up with the First-Aid gauze pads and medical tape. He gathered up the things he originally meant to purchase. He also snagged a cup of joe. He didn't fuss over the sub. He stumbled over the clerk again on his way out. He avoided the first man's body, and he found the body of the black man too close to the Impala for comfort. The hunter quickly dislodged the nozzle, and jumped into the driver's seat. He peeled out of there faster than lightning. Dean got back on the highway. The farther away he got from Lexington, the better. He was awake enough now to drive another three hours. Minimum.

—

Dean had driven long into the night. He didn't stop until he reached Ogallala. He couldn't go any farther. It was 1:37 in the morning, and he was coming down from his high, achieved both by adrenaline and the caffeine. He pulled off at Ogallala and tucked his Baby away in a crevice that he felt was safe. The hunter reached into the back seat and grabbed a cinnamon bun. He crammed it down amidst the acidic burning he felt in his stomach. He tossed the wrapped away and got out of the car. Dean searched the trunk of the Impala and found what he was looking for: needle and thread. He sat back on the trunk, and unzipped his jacket. He grit his jaw. Of course, the hunter would have taken care of the laceration sooner, but he had been much more worried about getting the hell out of Dodge. He slowly peeled away the blood-soaked bindings and he threaded the needle, folding the length and knotting it multiple times to increase the thickness. Having to stitch himself up was always a bitch, but he'd had to bite through worse injuries before. It took less than a minute before Dean snipped the thread. He put the needle and spool back, and placed new gauze over the old. He didn't have any tape on hand, so he'd have to reuse. It would do.

Dean slapped the trunk shut and shuffled to lie down on the bench seat up front, since his seats couldn't recline. The burn in his lungs seemed to be lessening a little, which was good. He kept Ruby's knife close to his heart as he wrapped himself tighter into his jacket. The bandages on his collar felt finicky against his skin. They were more inflexible to the contours of his body. He was going to have to make a small pit stop tomorrow. He needed to find a tattoo parlor and get himself re-inked as soon as possible, but in a place like this, he was pretty sure no parlors were open at one in the morning. For now, Dean was just happy to be getting some shut-eye, even if he had to sleep with one eye open to do it.


	19. Chapter 19

Kevin woke up the next morning feeling somewhat less crappy. He was still pretty much confined to his bed, but no big deal. He just wished that he had a laptop to pass the time. The prophet was mostly forced to sleep to pass the time. He hated that his family was out there, trying to find each other, and he couldn't do anything to help. But he held on to that slip of paper that Dean gave him. It was an anchor. It reminded him to be patient.  
He had his doubts. He didn't think he would be leaving the hospital before the Winchesters (and Castiel) got back. The doctors told him that they wanted to monitor him for a few days and ween him off of his medications gradually. Kevin's head sank against the pillows.

"Great," he sighed, "...I'm gonna be spending my birthday in the hospital."

Kevin missed his old life a lot. He didn't always focus on his losses, but he really missed being able to celebrate his birthday like normal people. But of course, when standing next to Sam and Dean, the prophet was made to feel overprivileged. How many birthdays did Sam and Dean have? This led to, when are their birthdays, anyway? The question bothered Kevin in a fitfully childish manner. He made a note to ask the brothers later.

While Kevin couldn't get computer access, he managed to get himself a note book and writing utensils. Kevin wasn't feeling particularly inspired to write, so he mostly drew. He drew characters from some of his favorite movies, shows and games. He made little comics with his own characters, who may or may not have been inspired by Sam, Dean, Castiel and himself. Mostly his comics were funny little gags, like Dean having to teach Castiel how to drive or Sam trying to carry out a conversation with Ezekiel interjecting every other word. He drew wings on Samekiel so that he could tell Ezekiel apart from Sam. He didn't draw Castiel with wings.  
He stopped drawing for a minute and thought about the nightmare he had yesterday, about Ezekiel. It scared the holy hell out of him. Wasn't the first time Ezekiel had frightened (or threatened) him before. He proved to be a pretty mellow guy whenever he surfaced in Sam though. But the way he spoke was strange. His tone seemed to rise and sink like the gentle ebbs and flows on the ocean's surface, whether the intonation was appropriate or not. And his lack of contractions ("can't", "won't", "I'll") were pretty evident of how out-of-place he was in this world. He really was a Castiel knock-off.

Kevin returned to his drawings. He took a break from the comics, and instead attempted side-by-side portraits of Sam and Samekiel. He wasn't Picasso, but he did his best to capture the subtle nuances that differed between Sam and Ezekiel. When he was done, he wasn't too impressed with his lack of artistic vision. It just wasn't his thing. He put the notebook under his pillow and decided that it was time to sleep again. He wanted to turn over on his side and curl up, but he wasn't allowed to do that. He had to stay flat on his back. The prophet was beginning to feel out of focus, so he figured that a nap before lunch wouldn't hurt. He squeezed Dean's note in his hand again.

—

Sam's sleep went uninterrupted, which was good, all things considered. He stretched lazily in bed, yawning, before relaxing again. Dean had said that he would have to sit tight again. He could manage. Even though he had only been in Douglas for the past two days, he had grown a liking to this place. There was actually quite a bit to explore around here, he discovered. Gary and Gris had told him about the town's fame for the Jackalope. Sam had never heard of a jackalope, but when it was explained, it was really just a cross between a jackrabbit and a deer.

_"Story goes,"_ Gris said, _"Some guy was a taxidermist, and he had a jackrabbit on his backlog. The rabbit carcass was thrown beside a deer carcass, and that sparked the idea— there's a jackalope statue out by Town Hall, if you wanna see it."_

_"Actually, the jackalope was a North American mythical creature,"_ Gary had corrected, _"Like the Native Americans' wendigo._" That hailed an onslaught of pleasant memories in Sam's mind. _"Lores speak of rabbits who, in special cases, grew little horns out of their skulls. They were supposedly a cross of some "killer rabbit" and a deer. They were really shy unless approached. Supposedly, the pioneers first sighted them here, in our very own Douglas_._"_ Gary said proudly.

_"Yep,"_ Gris followed up with,_ "Douglas, Home of the Jackalope. That's our claim to fame. It was that taxidermist-guy, Herrick I think, who popularized them."_

Sam washed his face in the bathroom. He figured that he'd go to see the Jackalope statue after breakfast. It was cool to get a little bit of history on a town that, in the grand scheme of things, would remain insignificant. Sam wiping his face with a hand towel, and he stopped short at the doorway.

On the wall, there was writing. Sam was positive that it wasn't his doing, and it frightened him a little. In a thin scratch of pen ink, the Winchester read "_Ezekiel_". It didn't take too long to put two and two together, but prior to figuring it out he had chucked away all intent to leave the motel room. Ezekiel must've been the angel in his meat suit. Sam sighed, sinking back onto the bed as his rubbed his face down.

"... I got your message," Sam informed the angel, bowing his head, then nodding slightly. "...Would it have killed you to write it on paper?"

Maybe it would have. Overexertion and all. Who knew? The Winchester realized that he didn't have any paper with him in the room to begin with. Oh well. The questions didn't provoke any form of response anyway.

Sam stood up and left the motel. He was dying for some grub.

He settled for a pancake house two blocks down. To his surprise, Gris was there waiting on tables.

"Gris?" Sam asked, turning her attention away from the podium up front.

"_Sam?_" Gris sounded just as surprised. With an open-mouthed grin, she cocked out a hip and folded her arms, "Fancy seeing _you_ here."

"What about bartending-?"

"What? You think that job alone is gonna support me?"

"Sorry. What about Gary?"

"He's working," Gris nodded, "He works at the hardware store on Elm."

"Oh. Nice."

"Here's lemme get you seated," Gris motioned for the Winchester to follow. He noticed that Gris' name tag spelled her nickname, not her full name. He wondered if she had to push and shove for that.

Sam got seated in the back dining room, not up front where the counters were. She gave him a menu. He thanked her, and she took off to take care of her other patrons. He spotted a rack of newspapers, and he got one for himself. He sat down and flipped through it leisurely, but something caught his attention. There was an article that spun a story about a local haunting. Reportedly, a girl dropped dead in a cemetery that she had been scoping with friends after dark two days ago. Local lore had it that the cemetery was haunted, but no further commentary on the article dug into the story of said haunting.

When Gris came around with his coffee, he straightened.

"Hey, Gris, did you see this?" he showed her the article as she poured his cup. Her features crinkled as she read line by line.

"Oh yeah- Tabitha Parks... Her daddy's the sheriff here. He did me a favor once."

Sam wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"It says the cemetery is haunted. Is it true?" he continued.

"Well, people say it is, but I don't have any firsthand experience with ghosts," Gris said, "So I can't say if it's true or not. ...Poor girl. Something must've scared her to death."

"...Yeah."

Gris left him to his own devices once more, and Sam quickly tore the article from the paper. He tucked it into his pocket. He would have to look into this later.

—

Sam and Gris were able to exchange more throughout his sitting in the diner. Sam learned that supposedly a drunk had been killed in Douglas and he rose from the grave to seek vengeance on the man who had killed him in a hit-and-run. So there was a job in town. Seemed pretty routine, nothing _too_ out of the ordinary, by his standards. He could handle this, right? Sam ate his meal, paid the bill, said goodbye to Gris, and departed. He stepped out into the morning sun and looked around. He had to find the cemetery on 53rd Street. The only problem was actually desecrating Marley's grave. It was broad daylight out, and in a tighter-knit town like this, he couldn't just walk up with a shovel and start digging. Plus, he still had to confirm that this was actually Marley's ghost. Or a ghost at all.

Sam scoped the cemetery, picking his way around the graves, and he found Marley's after about a half-hour. He stooped before the headstone. There wasn't anything really special about it; he could tell that Marley wasn't a Class A citizen of Douglas. Sam would need to access the town's records on Marley. He'd need to interview friends and family of Marley. He'd also need to find out how many people could attest to the haunting being executed by Marley's ghost. He could already feel the work piling up. And he wouldn't be able to do a whole lot of it without a fake badge at the very least. Sam had squat.

He checked his wallet. He had forty bucks to his name left over from his winnings. He could make a trip to the hardware store for supplies, maybe see Gary, or he could wait for Dean to get his ass up here and they could tackle this job together with a lot more fluidity. But Kevin was brought into consideration, and he left the cemetery.

"Dean, I think I found a job." Sam told his brother over the phone.

_"_Oh, well that's wonderful, Sammy."_

"Dude, I'm serious, cut the crap," Sam bit, "–Local haunting. Fourteen-year-old Tabitha Parks goes exploring a cemetery at night with her friends, she screams, and drops dead. _Scared to death_."

_"___By-?_"

"Well, folks around here claim that the cemetery is haunted by a man named Jacob Marley. He was killed in a hit-and-run a few months ago. Witnesses claim he's back from the grave to put the fear of God in his killer."

_"_Jacob __Marley?__ Seriously?"_

"I know."

Sam was surprised that Dean knew literary references when they smacked him in the face. But the only reason that Dean probably knew the name was because he had to read the book when he was still in high school.

_"_...Forget the job, Sam."_

"What? Why?"

_"_Because we have enough crap to deal with right now! We gotta find Cas, and wing our asses back to Kevin-"_

"Dean, the job is _right here_," Sam argued, "Besides, you were the one telling me to stay put until Cas showed up!"

_"_Cas isn't answering his phone, and don't you think–?!" _Sam heard Dean break into a coughing fit over the line.

"Dean?"

His brother sounded like his was hacking up a lung.

"Dean!"

Dean was clearing his throat, _"_-Don't you think Cas would have reached you by now-?"_ Sam could practically feel his brother clenching up to the cough. _"_... I think something's happened to him."_

Sam hated to agree the more he thought about it.

"Dean are you alright?"

_"_Yeah, I just– wrong pipe-"_

"Well, don't die on me," Sam said, "Wouldn't do me a whole lot of good."

Dean was silent.

The receiver clicked.

—

Dean wasn't stupid. He knew when his brother was throwing crap right in his face. Sam was still pissed about Ezekiel. He could hear the words in his last sentence. His cell phone was sitting on the seat next to him. He glanced at it once or twice. He thought about dialing Cas again, but he was already convinced that his calls would go unanswered, so he didn't.

The Winchester wheezed, and coughed into the napkin that he was holding. He didn't have to look. There was blood. The rock salt really did a number on his lungs after all. They felt raw. Agitated. The bloody discharge would have warranted more concern from him, but he planned to have Ezekiel mend him up as soon as he got to Douglas. Doctor Zeke. Somehow it was catchy.

Dean had accidentally slept in more than he meant to, so instead of cruising around Ogallala for a tattoo parlor, he hit the road. It was 11:36. He avoided the Interstate this time, and took Route 26, deviating northwest. The scenic byway was refreshing from the traffic clutter of the quick way. He passed small townships like Brule and was lucky to find a parlor in tiny Oshkosh. Dean was in and out. His new tattoo was carefully etched on the opposite shoulder, where Cas's burn scar would have been if it was on his right shoulder (from his perspective). God, he already felt tacky for having two identical tats on his body, but he would have to fuss about that later. The important thing was that his ass was covered now.

And Dean kept driving. He got back on the Interstate and sketched his way across the final stretch of Nebraska. It took him two hours. Hello, Wyoming. Dean glanced at the clock again. 3:12 in the afternoon. Actually, no, it was 2:12 in the afternoon. Dean Winchester hated time zones. Whose bright idea was it to have time zones?

Time to call Sam back, he decided.

_"_Dean."_

Sam still sounded pissed.

"Hey, I just crossed over into Wyoming. I should reach Douglas in another hour and a half or so."

_"_Alright. I'm staying at Beedie's Inn on Ash Street off of 4__th__ Street. If I'm not there, you might find me at The Rockchuck Bar, or Marge's Pancake House on Oak." _

"See you there."

Dean clapped his phone shut. He coughed again into the napkin.

—

Sam, again, hated having to wait for his brother. But if he had any chances of tackling this case, it was with Dean. Mostly, Sam sat in his motel room, but he was getting sick of being cooped up again. He decided to head on down to the hardware store on Elm. Popping in on Gary couldn't hurt. He shivered as the November— no, _December_ (that's right, today was _December 1__st_) wind raced over and around him. He wondered if Douglas would be getting any snow tonight. It was certainly cold enough. Sam noted that he would have to check the weather channel when he got back. He stepped into the sizable store, and he found Gary right away.

"Sam!"

Sam wheeled around to see Gary with a big smile on his face.

"Hey, Gary!" the younger Winchester put some effort into his enthusiasm.

"Man, what are you doing here?" Gary closed in, and he practically had to break his neck to look up at Sam.

"Well, I found Gris at Marge's and she told me you worked here," he explained, "I figured I'd pop in and say hi."

"Aw, really? That Gris," Gary giggled, "-Well, thanks, Sam! I appreciate it."

"No problem. Hey, when do you get off of work?"

"Oh, not for another three hours."

"Oh-" Sam looked around, "-Well, I don't wanna get you in trouble with your boss, or whoever."

"Oh no, you can stay, by all means," Gary invited, "My boss is pretty laid back. He doesn't get his pants knotted up unless I'm not working."

"What are you working on now?"

"Just restocking the shelves over here," he flicked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Can I help?" Sam offered.

"No, Sam, thanks but you shouldn't."

Sam wound up helping him anyway.

The two of them got on chatting again, and Sam listened to Gary talk about his home life. He lived alone now that he broke up with his ex, and he had two dogs, Jamie and Sally. They were cocker spaniels. Gary didn't have any family in Douglas, except for an uncle who was now passed away. He had relatives down in Cheyenne and out towards Casper. He said that he wanted to get away from his family. They weren't "appreciative of his lifestyle," as he so generously put it. Except for his uncle, of course. Sam asked him about his uncle, how did he pass? Gary didn't know why Sam was surprised to hear that his uncle had been drunk when he died. Killed in a hit-and-run. It was pretty hard on Gary.

"—Gary, was your uncle's name... Jacob _Marley_, by any chance?" Sam asked carefully.

"–Yeah," Gary blinked, "... How did you know?"

"Rumors," Sam admitted.

"-Oh, about the Douglas Town Cemetery being haunted?"

"Yeah. ...Gary, have you ever- I dunno, _seen_ your uncle's ghost? Or do you _think _you might have?"

Gary was quiet.

"Gary-"

"I–I don't know," he began to stammer, "-I might have-"

"When?" Sam was beginning to get a little more excited than was appropriate.

"Sam, why are you asking me about my Uncle Jake-?"

"Gary, please, tell me. It's really important-"

"Why do you wanna know-?! Sam, you're freaking me out now-!"

"Because people are dying!" Sam blurted out.

Gary was still.

"...What?" he squeaked.

"Gary, _have you seen your uncle's ghost?_" Sam tried again, clapping his hands on Gary's shoulders. "A girl, Tabitha Parks- she _died_ in your uncle's cemetery. I don't know if anyone else has dropped dead in there too, but I need to know– _Is your uncle walking those grounds?_"

Gary was tearing up, and Sam felt guilty, but he needed to know.

"HEY!"

Sam's head snapped up. He saw a round older man closing in.

"ARE YOU HARASSING MY EMPLOYEE?!"

"No, I-"

"SIR, I THINK YOU SHOULD SCRAM, BEFORE I CALL THE COPS!"

Sam bolted from the store.

Goodbye, Gary.


	20. Chapter 20

Sam trekked back to his motel room and he didn't stop until he was safely behind closed doors. Panting, he leaned against the door for a solid minute before wobbling over to his bed. Damn it. Of course he felt terrible for hurting Gary. He unquestionably had overstepped his bounds by pressing more personal questions onto a man he had only met yesterday, but it was far from the first time that he had ever done that. Gary was just one of the very few people that he had actually become attached to, in a way. He was kinda like Amelia, even though he had known her for much longer. Well, what was done was done. He got his answer anyway. He was more certain now that the thing that killed Tabitha was Marley's ghost. Sam sighed. Well, all he could do now was wait for Dean.

He was back to watching TV. He flipped channels and settled for watching _The Sandlot_. It had been forever since he saw that movie. He wouldn't mind trading his problems with Scotty's. That kid had it easy compared to him. Sam wound up changing the channel twenty minutes in, because the movie struck such a nostalgic chord with him that he just couldn't stand watching anymore of it. _Forrest Gump_ happened to be on as well.

Sam Winchester wasn't sure why he could tolerate _Forrest Gump_ more than _The Sandlot_. Maybe it was because as a coming-of-age film, _The Sandlot_ was a painful reminder to him of how abnormal and freakish his childhood was in comparison. Normal boys came of age through living up to societal standards: enduring puberty, venturing into the unknowns (namely the opposite sex), playing sports and being a hero in their own right. It wasn't as if Sam hadn't done _any _of those things. He played _soccer in school_, for God's sake. But for Sam it was different because he constantly had pressures on him that normal boys didn't have. Most boys didn't transfer schools every few weeks or months. Most boys weren't taught to live in fear of monsters under the bed. Most boys weren't taught to _hunt_ said monsters under the bed. Most boys didn't have shotgun-wielding superstitious madmen for fathers.

Sam always wondered how Forrest could run across America for three whole years without ever stopping or slowing down. Realistically it was impossible, he knew that. But how was he able to keep _going?_ How did he push himself to just keep running, to abandon everything, on the account of a woman who left him? Sam found himself, once again, ultimately able to relate. Even though Dean had towed him out the door on his first hunt since his admission to Stanford, it was Jess who set him on the path that was carve out his "destiny". Having her snatched from him was the reason that he kept running. Of course, his reason to keep going shifted away from Jess over time–as Azazel (and later, Brady as well as the rest of Azazel's gang) was hunted and killed (courtesy of Lucifer himself). Like Forrest, Sam had found himself stopping his cross-country marathon (a few times in his own case), but he could never break away from the course set before him. He was bound to it, unlike Forrest, who was simply able to walk away when he decided that no more was _no more._

A sharp rapping at the door startled Sam, and he jumped up, creeping closer to the door. He saw Dean through the peephole. He unlocked the door and opened up.

Sam was about to say his brother's name, but he stopped short. Dean looked worse for wear, his breaths labored as he leaned against the doorpost. The blood alone was enough to clue him in. The younger brother hauled his big brother inside and locked the door behind him.

—

Dean fell back onto the bed so hard that it creaked loudly, bouncing him up on the box springs. Sam folded tissue from the bathroom and gave it to him. Dean dabbed at his own mouth.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam asked incredulously. Dean didn't care about Sam's tone; he could tell that his bitch of a brother was just worried about him.

"_Demons_." God, his own voice sounded disgustingly hoarse.

"Demons?"

"Yeah, back in Nebraska-" Dean choked, spitting up into the napkin. The dark color of the discharge was really concerning Sam. "... Demons ganged up on me."

"You look like crap," Sam said bluntly. Dean just flung a sarcastic appreciative look at his brother.

"Thanks, Sammy, you look swell yourself."

"I mean I _think_ you should see a doctor."

"Nah, I'll be alright," Dean rocked forward on the bed a bit.

"Dean-"

"Zeke!"

Sam lurched forward, chest swelling in a deep inhale as his eyes once again flashed ionic blue. The light died as quickly at it shone, and Sam was put to rest.

".._.Dean._"

The older brother didn't respond for a few moments. He was just glad that he was able to keep Sam from nagging him. He would be okay soon enough. Dean's hands were folded, elbows on his knees, thumbs padding his cheeks through soft coughs. He could feel Ezekiel's (Sam's) eyes on him. He seemed to hesitate, before continuing.

"Sam is aware of me."

"...Yeah," Dean said quietly, "I know."

"He has not cast me out."

Dean's eyes closed, "Yeah, _thank God_."

"You do not understand, Dean. It is not that Sam has chosen to keep me– he _cannot_ do so. Sam and I are inseparable."

This yanked his head up to meet the angel's gaze.

"_What? _Because of the _sigil?_"

"Precisely."

Dean was unsure of how to coordinate his reaction. Was this good, or bad?

"Well, why the hell are you two stuck together now?" he demanded, "I mean, I've seen Cas get banished before, and he never had any problems with Jimmy because of that-"

"Dean," Ezekiel interrupted delicately, "_Sam_ was banished, _not me_."

Suddenly a breath huffed from Ezekiel, and he knees buckled. Dean was on his feet to catch the angel, but he caught himself. Dean stared at him.

"Zeke, _what the hell._"

Ezekiel sensed Dean's impatience, and he quietly sat on the bed. Dean hesitantly sat beside him.

"...I am still weak-" he explained to the Winchester. He took a minute to breathe. Dean's eyes never strayed from his brother. "... To be clear, _Sam _was conscious when he used the sigil. His conscience prevailed over mine_._"

Dean still wasn't following him.

"_What?_" he coughed.

Zeke took another breath and held it, as his eyes flicked back and forth between two unknown points, searching for a better explanation.

"When the sigil was used it was Sam who was... _driving the vehicle._"

The older Winchester brother was put off by Zeke's attempt at using an analogy. Evidently, the hunter wasn't the only one capable of reflecting impatience.

"Dean, the angel-banishment sigil was not designed to be used on human beings, only angels. Moreover, the angel-banishment sigil was not designed to be used on human vessels _while the vessel is fully conscious and hosting a "dormant" angel __at the same time_."

Now that the hunter understood, he didn't know what to say.

Zeke continued.

"Angels can withstand the power of the banishment sigil a lot more than humans can. When a vessel is banished, the angel is able to "shield" the conscience of the human because the angel is in control of the vessel. It is not to say that banishment is not painful for us-" Zeke paused for a breath, "-but it is indefinitely more painful for human vessels. ...I was unable to protect Sam because I was not conscious. I was in a dormant state, trying to heal us both. Sam was harmed... as was I."

Dean noticed that Zeke was holding Sam's lower abdomen. His sight returned to Zeke's (Sam's).

"So now you're _so damaged_ that you can't even _leave Sam if he wanted you to?_" Dean asked in disbelief.

"He does want me to," Zeke nodded, "I can feel it. ...But the way he is trying to reject me... it is not doing us any favors, Dean. Sam is hurting himself trying to cast me out. I am doing what I can to mend us both, but it will take time. Especially if he continues to fight me."

Dean swallowed.

"... You are hurt," Zeke observed, with sympathy glittering in his (Sam's) eyes as his (Sam's) brows knit and his (Sam's) forehead creased.

"Yeah-" the brother forced out, "-I was gonna ask you to work your magic and patch me up, but-" Dean flinched when Zeke suddenly pressed a hand to his chest.

"_No!_" he gasped, feeling strange energy quickly zip through his upper torso. It caused Dean to arch his back as the pain was seeped from him, like drawing poison from a bite. Zeke withdrew the hand and Dean slumped.

"Damn it, NO!" he shouted at the angel, "You weren't supposed to heal me!" Zeke's obvious confusion granted him no pardons. "Your priority is _Sam!_ You heal _him_ before you heal _me!_" Dean's anger crested quickly, and simmered down again. "... What can we do to keep Sam from trying to reject you?"

"–I can try to cleanse Sam's mind of all memories of myself," Zeke offered, "I can try to make him forget the banishment, the Grassland, all of it. But it will present a challenge. I am still weak. I may not be able to succeed." Dean didn't need to the angel to remind him, much to his annoyance. "... But then that will leave the matter of explaining the gaps I will leave in his memory," the angel added as an afterthought.

"Can you- I dunno, fabricate new memories?" Dean tried.

"Cleansing a mind is a tactical skill all by itself, Dean," Zeke replied, "It is not easily done. It is a delicate matter. _Fabricating_ _memories_ is a completely different skill, even more complex and full of risks. Memory fabrication would require pulling pieces of real memories and meshing them together– it is not simply a matter of creating false memories out of _nothing_. That cannot be done. If not executed properly with care, I could damage Sam's mind beyond my ability to repair."

"Alright, screw that," Dean decided without second thought. "-What if you stayed conscious? Instead of letting Sam drive, you could take the wheel for a while, until the both of you are healed up enough."

Zeke considered this.

"... I do not know how well I will be able to heal Sam if I am keeping him in a comatose state at the same time."

"What do you mean?"

"Because I am not strong now-" Here we go again with reiterating weakness, "—" Zeke leaned forward, still clutching Sam's stomach. A groan slipped from him.

"Zeke-?"

"I cannot stay much longer-" he warned quickly, "I need to rest, arguably more than Sam does. I am surprised that I was able to stay for this long. ... Incredible."

Sam's eyes flared with light and his body collapsed back on the bed. Dean hovered over his brother, panicked. Two names collided on his tongue, and he shoved out the first one he could pronounce coherently.

"_Sam!_"

* * *

**I have to admit, I really am surprised by the feedback I am receiving. I'm impressed that you have read this far and have tolerated my grammatical errors. I'm bent on correcting everything in the future, after the story is finished. But for now I have too much enthusiasm to go back and make the corrections. **

**Thank you for reading. **


	21. Chapter 21

When Sam regained consciousness, the first thing he did (after getting his bearings back) was let Dean have it.

"Wh– Did you just CANCEL ME OUT?!" he shouted, enraged.

And so it began.

"Yeah, I did, Sam!"

"What the HELL, DEAN?!" the younger brother's body felt hot, and his breathing was aggressive enough to reflect Dean's concern. Sam watched Dean stand up from the bed to confront him.

"Sam, calm down-"

"NO!" Sam rebelled, fueling the fire with his voice, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU, DEAN! YOU HAVE DONE SOME PRETTY STUPID CRAP BEFORE IN YOUR LIFE, BUT **THIS** TAKES THE CAKE!"

"Ezekiel healed me, Sam!" Dean's own voice began to rise as well.

"_Don't try to change the subject, Dean._" the younger brother glowered. The moment the words left his lips, Dean actually backed up a step. His eyes were large.

"_I am __**done**__ taking your crap,_" Sam stepped forward to match his brother's back-step. "_I'm __**done.**__ I have had __**enough**__ of your __**selfishness**__._" Usually, Dean wouldn't take any crap from Sam sitting down. He would fight back. This time, Dean listened. It was troubling new dynamic, but deep down, Sam appreciated it. He really was fed up with it.

"..._Why didn't you just __**let me die, Dean?**_ ..._I was so ready to just be done with it all. I was __**tired**__. I was ready to __**rest.**__" _More anger was still churning in his stomach, and his bones felt like they were being roasted over hellfire. His fists were clenched so hard that they shook. "_I can't believe I'm actually__** this stupefied! **__Of course you weren't gonna let me off the hook! You're still so twisted up by your promise to Dad that you'd always protect me and keep me safe! __**This is not safe, Dean! This WORLD is not safe! If you wanna know what SAFE IS, THERE IS SAFETY IN DEATH!**__"_

Sam hadn't realized it until then, but he couldn't catch his breath and his head was throbbing painfully. But he chewed through it; he wasn't finished with Dean yet. As for Dean, he looked_ beyond_ shocked. Sam felt some satisfaction for putting his own brother at a loss for words.

"... _I can't believe what I'm hearing_," Dean said at last.

"**_You should_**," Sam seethed.

A minute passed between them, and maybe Sam was done after all. His breaths were calming, and the anger was cooling. A hollow feeling was left behind instead. "..._You should have just let me go._"

—

In the face of it, it actually wasn't so much that Dean Winchester didn't know what to say, as it was that he had _too much to say. _There was so much that he wanted to spit in Sam's face. _He_ was being selfish? Sam was being even more selfish! Sam had managed to get escape the life before, but he always rebounded because of a moral sense of responsibility. He was a hunter. It was his job to make the world a better place, in the places that didn't often see the light.

But all at once, Dean understood. He didn't pretend not to. He knew the weariness. He knew what wanting to give up felt like. He knew what wanting to die felt like. But he also knew what was likely waiting for him the second he did. Sometimes it was the only reason he kept fighting. He would be damned if he didn't.

There was so much he could have said, but he said nothing.

"Sam-"

Dean caught his brother, grunting as he hefted his weight. Curse his height. Sam was out again. For the better, Dean decided. He lay Sam down on the bed and sat down next to him, feeling his forehead. He felt feverish. His pulse was racing too. But what had really had Dean concerned was something that happened _during_ Sam's rant of the century.

It was brief, but Sam's eyes took up Ezekiel's luminance.

Dean knew that Ezekiel was weak, but a question prodded him to the point of stark naked disturbance: If Sam was the dominant conscience in his vessel, then could he come to wield Ezekiel's powers _without a need for him to surface?_

Zeke had said that he and Sam were stuck together. What if he meant stuck as in _literally stuck? _Dean was itching to summon Zeke and question him, but he didn't want to take the risk. Sam was worn out enough as it was. At the rate things were going, it seemed bleak: Sam and Ezekiel would never be able to fully recover.

Sam might get his death wish granted after all.

* * *

**It is at the conclusion of this chapter that I seriously ask, "_Oh god, what the hell am I even doing?_"**


	22. Chapter 22

There was nothing that Dean could do except wait. He only left the bed once to use the bathroom, and to get the TV remote. He flipped through the channels, and wound up stopping on ABC Family. _It's a Wonderful Life_ was on. Dean figured he might as well watch it, since Sam had told him months before that was where Cas got "Clarence" from. It was a color version, and the more he watched, the more the older brother understood why Meg dubbed his best friend "Clarence".

_"We're going to Heaven, Clarence~"_

Dean shifted. Cas, maybe, but he knew where Meg was now.

Throughout the movie, Dean couldn't help installing himself and Cas in the shoes of George Bailey, and Clarence Odbody. He finally understood the irony in the striking similarities between Cas and Clarence especially. Not only were they both angels, but they were both wingless too. He watched George flitting around like a madman in a George Bailey-less alternate reality, panicking more and more as he went.

He recalled all of his past reality-bending experiences, and wondered what life would have been like for Sam, if he himself had never been born. Either it would have been significantly better, or significantly worse. Both ends of spectrum pained him to imagine. Just imagine for a moment:

Imagine the whole story without Dean Winchester. No Dean Winchester meant no Michael Sword. No Michael Sword meant imbalance for Lucifer's vessel. As Fate (or Heaven, actually) would have it, the angels were very ceremonious. The two vessels for the final showdown had to be blood brothers. The angels' meticulousness could have spelled salvation, had Dean never been born. The angels wouldn't have cared for Sam Winchester, if there was no complimentary Dean. Sam wouldn't have been "chosen". Sam would have never encountered Azazel. Mom wouldn't be dead. Dad would have never flown off the handle. Sam would have never seen the Cage. Sam would have never lost his soul. Sam's "wall" would have never been installed. Sam would have never endured the Trials. Sam wouldn't be fighting an angel right now. Sam wouldn't be in Death's throes.

Or Azazel still could have come for Sam and brought his brother completely to ruin. Imagining his brother as an advocate of Hell— would Sam have become a Knight, like Abaddon? –Imagining his brother sinking so low helped Dean Winchester to be thankful for his circumstances now.

Dean tried Cas's number again. This time he left a message.

"_Cas. We're here in Douglas, waiting for you._" Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam. "_... We're only sticking around for one more day. We'll be gone by Tuesday, so if you can't reach us by then, you tell us where you are, and we're gonna come find you. _

"_...Cas, I'm sorry. I should've said this a lot sooner, I know, but I'm sorry. Just... pick up the damn phone, will you? You're worrying us—...me. You're worrying me. ...Call me back._"

Dean hung up.

—

Sam heard Dean's message to Cas. Every word of it. But he chose to feign unconsciousness for a minute longer. He didn't feel ready to wake up just yet, but the rattling in his bones was uncomfortable and it made his face twist up a bit, which Dean must've seen because Sam heard his brother's voice addressing him.

"Sam?"

Sam didn't speak, and he tried to move, but his brother's firm hands were holding him back.

"Sam, stop." He still hadn't opened his eyes. He didn't want to see his brother, so he willed himself to relax again. Dean continued. "... I was thinking- we can stay a day longer. Wrap up this job and then be on our way." Was this a token of apology from his brother? Well, it was a start. Sam inhaled quietly.

"_...Gary_," he exhaled.

"What?"

"_Gary_," the younger brother tried again. He scooted himself a little, and this time Dean didn't stop him. "He's related to our suspect."

"Marley?"

"Yeah. ...I met him before you got here. He's Marley's nephew. And the girl who died, Tabitha Parks, she's the sheriff's daughter."

"Okay-" Dean crossed his arms, "-so if Marley's a vengeful spirit looking for his killer, why did he drop her? How old was she?"

"Article said she was fourteen."

"Too young to be behind the wheel," Dean concluded. "Did anyone else die in that cemetery?"

"Not that I know of," Sam puffed, and a hand crept up to his stomach. Dean watched this warily.

"...Okay, well you get some rest, I'll go see what I can dig up." Sam watched his brother head out, but then he paused at the door, and looked back at him. "_Don't strain yourself, you hear me?_"

"Yes sir," Sam fought an eyeroll.

—

Dean looked at his dashboard clock. It was 5:23pm. The older brother remembered he was on Mountain Time now, so he subtracted an hour. The first thing he did was find the library. He searched its archives for all obituaries leading up to three months back. As it turned out, Tabitha Parks _wasn't_ the only person who died in Marley's cemetery. Dean found an uncanny lead almost immediately: all of these deaths were either Parks or _Winglers_, making a total of five people. Considering Marley was a fresher stiff than most, he was already on a killing streak. He must've been seriously pissed off. Dean remembered Sam saying that Tabitha was the sheriffs daughter, and it made him wonder.

Dean Winchester donned the suit. He meant business.

"Hi, is Sheriff Parks here?" Dean asked a young man (had to be in his mid/late twenties) working at his lone desk in the front lobby. Only after it left his mouth did Dean remember that Tabitha had just died, so the sheriff was likely off-duty. At his own daughter's wake. God, he was an idiot.

"Uh, no-" the officer looked up to Dean, "-the good sheriff's at his daughter's wake."

"Yes, right, of course," Dean excused himself, "Well, I'm Agent Hanicky-" (_Hanicky?_ The beauty of improv.) The Winchester flashed his badge, "-and I've been sent here to investigate the line-up of deaths at the Douglas Cemetery."

"Oh, well, I'm not sure right now is the best time-"

"I don't intend to bother the department's head honcho right now, son, don't worry." Son? If anything made Dean feel old, that was it. "I was just trying to see if I could get some information on _Jacob Marley_."

"Well, here, let me turn you over to Officer Dublinski-" he rose from his chair and led the "agent" into a large office. The room was busy as expected, pencil-pushers working at their desks while others milled about.

"Officer Dublinski!" the young man called. Evidently, the man was a newbie. A bald man with dark skin strolled over from the side of another officer's desk. "This is Agent Hanicky."

"FBI," Dean filled in. "I'm here about the strange deaths at the Douglas Cemetery." Officer Dublinski cast a glancing nod of appreciation to the young man.

"Thank you, Mitchell, I'll take it from here."

The young man nodded and returned to his post. The two older men watched as he left.

"Newbie?" Dean turned back to Dublinski.

"Two weeks in," the officer nodded, "Poor kid. Newbs always have it rough."

"Believe me, I know," the hunter agreed.

"So! The Douglas cemetery deaths-"

"-None of the victims showed signs of violent death," Dean told him, and the officer nodded.

"No signs of aggression or struggle. There's no reasonable motive to be seen, either. They just dropped dead."

"And they were all either Parks or _Winglers_. I'm guessing all related to the sheriff?" Dean proceeded.

"The Parks were his relatives, yes, but the Winglers weren't."

"They weren't? Were they connected to the Parks family in any way?"

"No, I don't think so," Dublinski shook his head. Dean sighed internally.

Great.

"...Well, what do we know about_ Jacob Marley_?"

"Jake Marley?" Dublinski tilted his head slightly, "Well, he was buried in the Douglas Cemetery- what does he have to do with-"

"Just answer the questions, sir."

Dublinski looked troubled, but he assented.

"I'm aware that he was killed in a hit-and-run more recently."

"Yes, a little over two months ago."

"When was that, exactly?"

"September 25th."

It fit. All of the vics that Dean accounted for had been killed in October into November.

"Now, do you know who hit Mr. Marley the night he died?"

"No, the report was inconclusive. We had a witness who said the car was gray, but they couldn't name a make or model. No license plate number either."

Dean left the police station after "routine" follow-up questioning and decided to swing by the gas station to pick up kerosene and some bags of rock salt. He hideously remembered his demonic encounter the night before. He didn't think he'd ever use a salt shaker again. But this salt wasn't for consumption. If he was gonna be torching a corpse, kerosene and salt were essential.

Before returning to the motel room, he also figured that a drink or two wouldn't hurt. The Rockchuck Bar seemed promising. He wasn't feeling too promiscuous this evening, but he could have his mind changed if an opportunity was presented. And it was.

Dean had an eye for the barmaid. She wasn't the curviest girl, but she still had nice shape. She looked hot in that jeans skirt and those tight red leggings-

He jumped when she smacked down a shot glass for him and filled it up. The way she was looking at him, the way she kept her lichen-green eyes on him, told him that she could tell what he was thinking. Too bad for Dean, he didn't know that Gris had a girlfriend.

"Sorry, buster," she told him, "but I'm already dedicated."

She turned away to help out another man, and Dean was left to burn in his stool. _Ouch._

Minutes later, Gris passed by him again, and Dean pulled out his ace.

"You, know, you've got nerve," he complimented, "Especially talking to an agent like that."

The woman stopped and stared.

"It's a good quality, don't get me wrong," he continued, fingering his glass, "...Dedication isn't so bad either."

"...FBI?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"... Sorry, _Agent_," she apologized.

"It's alright. Seems like you get hassled a lot. It's understandable."

"More than I'd like," she told him. "... What's an FBI agent doing here, anyway?"

"Working," Dean said simply, "I'm not at liberty to divulge any information about my case."

"Oh," Gris said. She paused for a moment and then added, "But here? Douglas?_ Really?_ Nothing exciting ever goes on around here."

"You'd be surprised," Dean downed his shot, and reached her glass forward for another. Gris tipped the bottle for him.

"Well... good luck."

"Thanks."

Gris walked away again, and Dean inspected his drink quietly.

"Hey, Gary."

Dean looked up. Gris was tending to a shorter man with dark receding hair, tucked up in a black coat.

"Hey, Gris."

"What's wrong?" Dean suddenly envied this Gary character a little bit. Just a tiny bit. She seemed to melt over him. Well, he'd done good for himself. Catching Gris and all.

"No, just-..."

"C'mon, tell me," Gris encouraged, "I'll fix you up a drink."

Dean waited and listened in on these two. Now, he usually wasn't the jealous type. Not at all, but he was mildly interested by these two. To be frank, he thought they looked like an unlikely couple. He didn't know how right he was.

"Sam visited me at work today," Gary told Gris as she was leaned over the counter, all ears for him.

"Sam? The Sam that was here yesterday?"

"Yeah him," Gary took a hard swig from his glass. "I mean, he was real nice at first, but then he started asking about my uncle, and-" he hiccuped, and Gris took his hand.

"Your Uncle Jake?"

"...Yeah."

Dean watched Gary's gaze drop to his lap.

"-I couldn't help it, Gris, I just-" the man's voice quivered, "-broke down."

If the counter wasn't between them, they would have hugged.

"... You know, Gris, I really owe you," Gary said.

"For what?" Gris asked.

"For just- being there for me." Dean could guess that Gary was a crier when he drank. "I mean, ever since Uncle Jack died- it's like God sent me an angel."

Dean's concern spiked.

"_You_ are _too sweet_, _Gary Marley_." She kissed his forehead.

Dean almost fell out of his chair. Heads turned as he caught himself on the counter. Gris jumped up.

"Agent?"

"I'm alright-" he insisted, looking around. Damn it, he hadn't meant to draw attention to himself. He turned back just in time to see Gris snatch his keys off the counter. "..._I'm not drunk, sweetheart._"

"No, but you're on your way there," she retorted. Dean had to bite back a few choice expletives. It was only _two shots_. These days, it took way more than that to get him to that point. ...Then again, he hadn't been overindulging in alcohol as much lately. Maybe his tolerance had dropped. Straightening himself up, Dean scraped together what little dignity he had left.

"_Have a good night_."

And he exited, disappearing into the night.


	23. Chapter 23

The rest of that night did not entail anything particularly exciting. Dean was extremely pissed that he had to leave Baby parked at the bar, and he was especially pissed at Gris. But what could he do? He wasn't in any position to throw a fit, lest he be thrown out of the bar and _lest_ Baby get impounded. He came back to the motel, found Sam fast asleep, and he called it a night himself.

The first thing that Dean did in the morning was return to the bar to get his keys. He was hoping that the smart barmaid wouldn't be there, but she was. The glass doors swung open and in stepped Dean. Gris was at the counter, sorting through the cashbox. She looked up.

"Agent," she greeted, not particularly overjoyed to see him, "Back for your keys?"

"Yeah," Dean pinched his brows together with his fingers and sighed. He had a bit of a headache. Gris reached for a rack screwed to the wall, where he saw several pairs of keys hanging. She tossed him his ring. Dean had to jump forward to catch them. "Have a good day, Ma'am," he said on his way out.

"-Wingler!"

Dean stopped.

Gris turned around to see a man emerge from the back room.

"Can you go around once and just wipe the tables-?" the man was struggling to get his jacket on, "I gotta get going, I'm late-"

"Of course, Harry."

"Thanks, Hon." The man -Harry- came out from behind the counter, and shuffled past Dean, who was holding the door halfway open. "-'Scuze me," he said as Dean moved out of his way. Dean hardly paid him any mind. He was watching Gris.

When Harry was gone, Dean let the door swing closed. He stepped away from it, towards Gris, who had her back turned to him. She was bent over, wiping down one of the tables.

"'Wingler'?" the "agent" asked. Gris turned up and spun to him.

"... Yes?" she answered cautiously, "–That's my name. What of it?"

"You wouldn't happen to be _related_ to either of the Winglers who passed away in the Douglas Town Cemetery, would you?" Dean paced slowly some ten feet away, circling one of the billiards tables.

Gris hesitated, before nodding.

"... They were my aunt and sister," she said quietly. Gris seemed to piece it together. "-Is that why you're here, Agent? About them?"

"Them _and_ the Parks, yes."

The barmaid was quiet again.

"—Wait, you don't think I _killed them_, do you?" her tone quickly became accusatory. Dean shrugged.

"Should I have a reason to suspect you, Ms. Wingler?"

"No."

"..._Good_," Dean nodded.

"–I'm sorry, I don't have time for this-," Gris quickly turned away and continued cleaning, "I'm going to be late for my other job."

"I'm sorry to hold you up then."

Dean watched her for a few minutes, hands tucked in his pockets. He glanced outside, and saw Baby sitting there, waiting for her driver. He saw another car neighboring his. Baby unquestionably outclassed the other car; it was an economical car, a 2006 BMW, painted a soft gray. He studied it intently, noticing how the hood and front bumper seemed to dip inward on the passenger's side.

"...Ms. Wingler," Dean called, turned his attention back to the woman. Gris halted. "What do you know about the death of _Jacob Marley?_"

Gris was unmoving.

Her hesitance confirmed his suspicion. After a minute, he saw her shoulders sag. Her head shook slowly. In the silence of the room, her voice sliced the air.

"_...I know it was an accident._"


	24. Chapter 24

Kevin didn't need to see a calendar to know what day it was.

Happy Birthday to him.

It really bummed him out that -again- he was going to spend his birthday hospitalized. But he could be happy about one thing. It may have been his birthday, but he still wasn't old enough to drink. It would've _sucked_ if he couldn't drink on his birthday. He still had another year to go.

But he couldn't help imagining how he might be celebrating his twentieth birthday if his life hadn't been completely screwed over. He'd probably be in college at Princeton (oh, how he wished) with a new set of friends. After a long studious day they'd be celebrating with him, going out to eat, seeing a movie, and who knows what else. The night would be ended by a nice long Skype call from Channing. She'd tell him that she meant for his birthday gift to come in he mail that day, but it would arrive late and that'd be okay. He wouldn't mind. He'd tell her that he missed her. She'd say "I love you".

Kevin dabbed at his eyes. Damn it, no.

He kicked at his sheets with an aggressive huff, and turned to see what little he could out the faraway window. He hated the tug he felt from the tubes plastered to his arm, but what could he do?

A tapping at his door alerted him, and he turned to see a redhead girl standing with a small train of balloons in hand. Kevin didn't recognize her. A sudden thought had him panicking.

"Get out-" his voice rose as he shifted up to sit higher. The girl tensed up.

"I— I'm not gonna hurt you," she said, "I just-"

In quick dainty steps, she came into the room. Kevin almost hollered for help. He watched her tie the balloons to his bed post instead.

"...Happy Birthday," the girl said, bringing her eyes up. Kevin swallowed. She wasn't a demon? The girl seemed to be a bit of an introvert, because she hesitated before speaking again. "...I overheard you yesterday. ...I'm here 'cause of my little sister."

"...How old are you?" Kevin asked, both surprised and impressed.

"Thirteen," her voice was kind of quiet. "...My name's Kayla."

"...Kevin."

"Happy birthday, Kevin."

"Thanks, Kayla."

The girl -Kayla- stood there a little awkwardly, and Kevin watched her carefully. Kayla rubbed one of her arms, keeping her eyes fixed elsewhere.

"...How old are you today, Kevin?"

"Twenty."

"Wow."

"I know." Kevin didn't realize it until then, but he was no longer a teenager. Wow. He felt old already.

"I wonder what I'll be like when I'm twenty."

Kevin shrugged, "Only one way to find out."

This made Kayla smile in a silent laugh. He could see why she was quiet. Kayla's teeth weren't very straight. She had little gaps between her front top ones.

"Why's your sister in the hospital, Kayla?"

"Bronchitis. It's really bad."

"Oh."

"Why are you in the hospital Kevin?"

"... An accident," he lied.

"What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I think I would."

Kevin hesitated. Was he actually considering telling her the truth? That would be incredibly stupid of him, and he knew it. He decided to leave out the gross details of what was, instead, the truth.

"... My _friend_ hurt me."

"That doesn't sound like an accident," Kayla observed.

"Like I said, you wouldn't believe me," he followed up quickly.

Kevin quickly diverted from the subject. He looked at the balloons.

"Where did you get these, Kayla?"

"Gift shop."

Oh. He felt stupid for asking.

"I spent my own money on them."

Okay now he just felt bad.

"You didn't have to do that."

"But I wanted to," Kayla perked up defensively, "... Nobody deserves to spend their birthday in a hospital."

True that.

"...Thanks, Kayla. You made my day."

For the first time in a long time, Kevin saw something that made him truly happy. There was a light in Kayla's eyes that radiated with pure _joy_.

Kevin and Kayla got to know each other a little bit. Kayla was in eighth grade. She didn't have a lot of friends. She was a lot smarter than people gave her credit for. She couldn't wait to get braces. But her sister's health put that on hold.

"What's college like?" she asked Kevin. That stung a lot. He honestly didn't know. Not for personal experience.

"It's... different," he nodded after giving it a little thought, "You don't have to go to school five days a week if you don't want to. And you can take as many classes as you want. You can live far away from home if that's what you wanna do," Kevin leaned forward carefully and quirked a brow. _"Away from your parents_." That made Kayla grin.

"That sounds _really awesome_."

"You have _no idea._"

"But college is a lot harder."

Kevin had to give leeway there. "Yeah, true."

"My cousin's in college, and he's always super busy because of his homework."

"What's he studying for?"

"He wants to be a lawyer."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"...Well, my advice to you, Kayla, is enjoy school now while it lasts, 'cos trust me, you'll be as old as me one day, and you'll be wishing you could go back and do it all over again."

"Do you wish you could do it all over again?"

"...More than you know."

—

A nurse had entered the room, and Kayla was taken back to her parents, who had gotten worried about her. Kevin was sure that this wouldn't be the last time he'd see her. He watched the helium balloons sway at the foot of his bed. He didn't want the nurse to move them to right beside his head because he'd have to snap his neck to admire them. After a routine check-up, the told Kevin that he actually looked healthy enough to get checked out. He'd just have to wait another hour or two to get confirmation from the doctor. Thank God. Kevin couldn't ask for a better birthday present. It was just too bad about Kayla's balloons. He wouldn't be able to take them with him as much as he wanted to. He needed to get back to the bunker without being detected, and those balloons would be like waving a banner saying "Here I am!".

Speaking of getting back to the bunker– Kevin pulled out his notebook and flipped to the back cover. Dean's directions were still there. So was Dean's other note. The paper was riddled with crinkles from when he squeezed it, but that paper was his lifeline. He reviewed the directions again.

Kayla did come back. Kevin didn't have the heart to tell her that he might be leaving the hospital today. Kayla got to sit on Kevin's bed this time.

"Paddy's getting better," Kayla said, swinging her legs.

"Your sister?"

"Yeah. I prayed for her to get better." She glanced to the prophet. "...I prayed for you too."

Now, Kevin still had a conflict of personal beliefs. He wasn't a Christian by any means. But he couldn't deny that angels and God existed. He had to give the religious zealots credit where credit was due. There weren't totally crazy, apparently. But as for the idea of Jesus and "salvation"... he still didn't know what exactly he thought about that.

"Thanks, Kayla."

"You're welcome."

—

Kevin was glad to finally had the needles removed from his arm. He was also glad that he wouldn't have to eat any more hospital food. Hospital food was the worst. He was glad that he wouldn't have to piss through a tube. He was glad that he could take a shower. He was glad that he could put his clothes back on. He was glad that he was legally an adult and didn't need a "parent/guardian" to sign him out. The doctor told him that he'd had to come back to get his stitches removed, and that he'd still have to take capsules for the infection in his hand. Kevin insisted he could walk himself to the door, but standard protocol required all patients to get escorted out in a wheelchair. The Prophet of The Lord was no exception.

Kevin couldn't keep himself from looking back. He spotted Kayla, there, in the lobby with him. She waved to him. He waved back, feeling bad that she was seeing him leave when he hadn't told her. But it wouldn't matter in the long run, Kevin thought. In the end, they were both just strangers that happened to cross paths on another given day. Kayla would soon go forgotten. And he would go forgotten too. The late afternoon sun felt great on his face, despite the cool temperature. He got up from the wheelchair, thanked the nurse for her help, and unclasped his hand. The note was there. Time to go home.

It wasn't easy, as Dean predicted, to follow the instructions. Kevin considered hitchhiking because it was a pretty damn far walk from what Kevin could tell. And he had just gotten checked out of the hospital, so he wasn't in tip-top shape for a hike on foot. The prophet knew better than to hitchhike though. Trust no one. He abstractly wondered whose blood he was pumping now. He shivered and stopped thinking about it.

He stopped once or twice and asked people for directions, and then he would quickly be on his way. His stitches were beginning to burn a little. He thought about stopping to buy aspirin, but with no money to his name, Kevin was only motivated even more to get back to the bunker sooner.

Kevin had to take a break once he was halfway. God, his feet were aching, but at least he was wearing sneakers. He sat down at a bus stop, on one of those benches closed in with glass panels. He shuddered against the breeze that picked up, and his lifted his hood to protect his ears. His mouth felt dry too. He licked his lips, but there wasn't a lot of saliva to wet them. He rocked a bit on the bench as if he was priming himself to get back up and start walking again. He forced himself up again and kept going.

It was only five minutes into his walk that Kevin realized that the same SUV that had been tailing him. It was a 45 zone. This vehicle was crawling behind him at less than 5. Whoever was creeping on him had done a piss-poor job of using stealth. Kevin avoided looking back, and he picked up his pace a little, looking for possible escape routes. There weren't many places that he could hide. He was in an urban neighborhood. He'd have to trespass. There was a beige house coming up on his left. There was a narrow space between it and the neighboring one-

He bolted.

Kevin heard car doors behind him. Damn it, there was more than one. He didn't look back. He just kept running.

"WHOA!" he gasped, almost tripping to come to a stop. A older woman had appeared from around the corner of the beige house, and she was waiting for him with a blade. Angels, Kevin realized. He threw his hands up. He had gotten tangled up with angels before, and he knew from experience that they were ruthless when they were dead set on accomplishing something. Which, in this case, hopefully wasn't having him killed. He heard footsteps coming up behind him, and he swallowed.

"Kevin Tran," a female's voice said, "You're surrounded, so I suggest that you give yourself over to us quietly."

Kevin slowly turned around to face her, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

"...How did you find me?" he asked.

The angel, whose expression was stern, turned almost wry.

"A prayer on the wind."

Kevin saw movement from behind the angel, and it shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did. There was Kayla, looking stone-faced like the angels around her.


End file.
